About an hour later, my husband's mistress texted me to open the door.
At the doorway, there they were. Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses.
I bit my lip and stomped on them like a woman possessed, crushing them under my feet. Again and again, until petals were ground into the marble, scattering across the foyer like a massacre of red, and I was too exhausted to stand.
Then my phone buzzed again. Her, sending another text.
This time, she sent a picture of dinner: a perfectly set table, candles glowing softly, and a homemade cake. I noticed my husband's hand in the shot. Still wearing his wedding ring.
I stumbled back into the living room, grabbed the leftover bottle of whiskey, and drained it in one go.
I sank drunk on the couch and dialed the broker handling the Amalfi compound. That stupid island. Nostalgia di Serafina. Once the symbol of our happiness, now it just made my skin crawl.
When the call ended, I passed out on the couch.
I woke up to the soft press of familiar lips on mine. Domenico's breath smelled faintly like cream.
"What's with all these cancellation texts? What'd you cancel?"
There was a nervous edge to his voice. A hairline fracture in the authority that never cracked in front of his soldiers. Only here. Only with me.
I sat up and leaned back, putting space between us. My voice was calm, almost detached.
"Oh, nothing. Just scanned some random codes yesterday. Figured I'd cancel them before they tried scamming me."
I glanced toward the doorway. The massacre of roses from last night had already been cleaned up by the staff. No petals, no stems, no evidence. The household ran like his organization: problems vanished before sunrise.
I let out a small breath of relief.
"Did you finish your work?"
He nodded. His shoulders relaxed at my response before heading into the kitchen to make breakfast.
I picked up my phone to check on the island sale, but instead, I saw a new post circulating through the wives' network. Some woman who'd spoken against Ginevra the other day had now written this long, dramatic apology. The reason? Ginevra had just been announced as the new face of Maison Seraphine.
My brand. Named after me.
Breakfast tasted like cardboard, and Domenico wasn't doing much better. He spent most of the meal staring at his phone, this faint, unreadable smile tugging at his lips. His thumb drifted along the edge of his jaw, slow, absent. Whatever he was reading pleased him in a way breakfast with his wife could not.
When breakfast was done, he suddenly froze for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
"Babe, something came up. Business I can't push. Don't worry about the dishes. I'll handle them later."
Before I could say anything, he'd already slipped on his shoes and was out the door. He was in such a hurry that he didn't even take off his apron. He didn't even have time to ask me why I'd been drinking last night.
Well, I guess there's only so much space in one heart. Once someone else moves in, there's no room left for you.
Not even five minutes after he left, Ginevra's name lit up my phone again. This time, it was a photo of two sets of lingerie laid out on a bed. One black, one white.
Hey! Which one do you think I should wear? If it were your husband, which would he like more?
I didn't bother replying. I was too busy packing.
By the time I finished, every trace of me was gone from that estate. Twenty years of a woman's life, reduced to two suitcases and a silence so complete even the soldiers at the gate wouldn't know what had changed until it was too late.
On the way to the airstrip, I got a message from Domenico.
You sold the compound? Why? What's going on?
I typed my reply: Make sure you're home to accept my gift. Oh, and Domenico? You're out of chances.
I turned my wedding ring one final time. Then I stopped.
I slid the heavy Sicilian gold band off my finger, held it for a moment in my palm, and placed it on the leather seat beside me. It sat there, still warm.
Then I turned off my phone, pulled out the SIM card, and dropped it in the nearest trash.
Boarding the plane, I felt lighter.
