10. Maria
— · —
Maria
The photo is everywhere by morning.
Not public, the Morettis are too smart for that, but circulating through the family like wildfire. I know because my phone won’t stop buzzing with messages from numbers I don’t recognize.
Slut.
Whore.
Gold digger.
Couldn’t even wait until the divorce was final.
I turn off my phone. It doesn’t help. The words are already branded into my brain.
“Don’t read those.” Luca takes the phone from my hands. We’re in his apartment, our apartment, surrounded by the wreckage of takeout containers and legal documents. Neither of us slept. “They’re just trying to get in your head.”
“It’s working.”
“It’s not going to work in court. That’s what matters.”
I want to believe him. I really do.
But I keep seeing Victor’s face. That knowing smile. Courts favor fathers when the mother is... unstable.
“They added it to the custody filing,” I say. “The photo. Along with the wine incident. Along with everything else.”
“I know.”
“They’re going to paint me as the villain. The cheater. The woman who couldn’t keep her husband so she jumped into bed with his brother.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Does it matter?” I push to my feet. Start pacing. “The narrative is already set. Tommy’s the victim. I’m the homewrecker. Nobody cares that he cheated first, that he got my sister pregnant, that he-”
“People will care.” Luca catches my hands. Stops my pacing. “Because we’re going to tell them.”
“How?”
“You go public. Tell your side of the story before they can spin it any further.”
“An interview?” I laugh. It sounds slightly hysterical. “Who’s going to believe me over the Morettis?”
“Everyone, once they hear the truth.” His eyes are fierce.
“Tommy cheated for eight months. He drew up divorce papers three weeks before you even knew. He announced his affair at his grandmother’s birthday party, in front of your entire family.
And now he’s trying to take your baby because you dared to move on. ”
“You really think people will care?”
“I think people love an underdog. And I think they hate hypocrites.” He squeezes my hands. “The timeline favors you, Maria. He filed for divorce. He ended the marriage. You didn’t do anything until it was already over. That’s not cheating - that’s survival.”
I want to believe him.
I’m so tired of being afraid.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
***
The journalist’s name is Isabella Marchetti.
She writes for a women’s magazine, the kind that specializes in stories of survival and strength, not celebrity gossip and scandal. Renata recommended her. “She’s fair,” Renata said. “She’ll let you tell your side.”
We meet at a café across town. Neutral territory. Isabella is younger than I expected - late twenties, maybe, with sharp eyes and a digital recorder she sets on the table between us.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” she says. “I know this can’t be easy.”
“It’s not.” I take a breath. “But I’m tired of letting other people control my story.”
“Then let’s start from the beginning. In your own words.”
So I tell her.
Everything.
The pregnancy test. The knock on the door. Giuliana’s face when she said he’s mine now. The divorce papers with the date stamp three weeks old. The party. Nonna’s accusation. The way the entire room stared at me like I was the villain in someone else’s story.
I tell her about Luca - how he approached me in the hallway, how he offered to help, how he was the first person in five years who treated me like I was worth something.
I tell her about the kiss. About falling in love. About the photo that’s now being used to paint me as an adulteress.
“Yes, I’ve grown close to Luca Moretti,” I say, looking directly at her.
“He’s the only person in that family who’s ever treated me with honesty.
With respect. With kindness.” A pause. “Tommy cheated for eight months. I kissed one man - after my marriage was already destroyed. If that makes me a villain, so be it. I’d rather be honest than a saint who lies. ”
Isabella stops recording.
“That’s going to make a hell of a story,” she says.
***
The article drops two days later.
“SHE FOUGHT BACK: One Woman’s Story of Betrayal, Survival, and Finding Love After Devastation”
I can’t bring myself to read it. I let Luca do it instead, watching his face for any sign that it’s bad.
Instead, he starts laughing.
“What?” I grab for his phone. “What does it say?”
“Just look at the comments.”
I scroll down.
“She’s the victim here. He cheated for EIGHT MONTHS and now he’s claiming SHE’S the adulterer? The audacity.”
“Queen behavior. I hope she takes him for everything.”
“This family sounds like a soap opera. Team Maria all the way.”
“The brother sounds hot. Just saying.”
“Anyone else notice the timeline? He filed for divorce FIRST. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“#TeamMaria”
I look at Luca. “Is this real?”
“It’s real.” He’s grinning. “The tide is turning. People believe you.”
I scroll further. More comments. More support. A few trolls, but they’re drowned out by the chorus of people who see through the Morettis’ narrative.
“The sister did WHAT? With her own brother-in-law? For EIGHT MONTHS? While her sister was trying to get pregnant? That’s some next-level betrayal.”
“I would’ve thrown more than wine.”
“The grandmother blamed HER? At her own birthday party? That whole family is toxic.”
“Giuliana deleted her social media,” Luca says. “Tommy stopped giving statements. Victor’s lawyers are scrambling.”
“We’re winning.”
“We’re winning.”
I laugh. Cry. Both at the same time.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I actually believe it might be true.
***
That night, we’re on the couch.
Takeout containers scattered across the coffee table. Some terrible movie playing in the background. His arm around me, my head on his shoulder.
“You did good today,” he says.
“I was terrified.”
“You didn’t look it.” He kisses my temple. “You looked like a warrior.”
“I felt like I was going to throw up.”
“That’s probably still the pregnancy.”
I laugh. Elbow him in the ribs.
For a while we just sit there, the bad movie flickering, his thumb tracing idle circles on my shoulder.
“Tell me something normal about you,” I say. “Something that isn’t a court date.”
He thinks about it. “I can’t cook. At all. Last time I tried, I gave up halfway through and ordered pizza.”
“That explains the forty takeout containers.”
“Forty-one. I ordered while you were in the shower.” He grins. “Your turn.”
“I hum when I paint. Badly. Off-key. Drove Tommy up the wall.” I say it before I can stop myself, and his name lands lighter than it usually does. “I keep thinking about picking up a brush again. First time in years I’ve actually wanted to.”
“So hum,” he says simply. “I’ll buy earplugs.” And the easy nothing of it - two people on a couch trading small, true things - feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done.
“What happens now?”
“Now we wait for the hearing. Prepare our case.” He pulls me closer. “And maybe, just maybe, get some sleep. You’ve been running on fumes for two weeks.”
“I don’t want to sleep.” I look up at him. “I want to stay here. With you. Just... be.”
“Then we’ll be.” He kisses my forehead. Gentle. Tender. “For as long as you want.”
I close my eyes. Let myself relax into him.
This is what it feels like to be safe. To be held. To be loved.
I didn’t know I’d forgotten until I felt it again.
I fall asleep on his shoulder.
He doesn’t move until morning.
***
The phone rings at 6 a.m.
I jerk awake. Disoriented. Luca is already reaching for it, his face tight with the kind of tension that only comes from middle-of-the-night calls.
“Hello?” He listens. His expression changes. “When? Is she-” More listening. “We’re on our way.”
He hangs up.
“What is it?” I’m already sitting up. “What happened?”
“It’s Nonna.” His voice is hollow. “She collapsed. They don’t know if she’s going to make it.”