Voicemails
Valeria
Dante has been tense ever since the Pharmaceutical Convention. The lack of reaction from Wald is worrying him.
Did Wald realize the stolen file is incomplete? That he doesn’t have the parameters required for large-scale production?
Is that why he hasn’t made a move?
I’m asking myself the same questions, and the waiting is becoming harder and harder to bear.
Thankfully, today we’re visiting one of the townhouses selected by the real estate agent.
It’s the perfect opportunity to clear our minds and stop obsessing over our fears for at least a few hours.
The townhouse is simply incredible.
The ground floor is entirely devoted to living spaces: a massive sunlit living room, an elegant dining room, an enormous kitchen, and two guest suites for visiting friends.
The second floor is almost entirely occupied by an outrageously oversized master suite, along with three additional bedrooms, each with its own private bathroom.
The third and fourth floors were designed for staff: comfortable rooms, shared spaces, and a separate entrance accessible through an exterior staircase.
Enough to guarantee us complete privacy.
And that’s not even mentioning the landscaped garden, the heated pool, the sauna, or the rooftop terrace overlooking the city.
Throughout the entire tour, Dante keeps leaning close to my ear to describe, in perfectly obscene detail, everything he plans to christen in every single room.
The living room.
The walk-in shower.
The sauna.
The pool.
Even the staircase doesn’t escape him.
The real estate agent has the decency to stare fixedly at an imaginary point ahead of him to avoid smiling.
Meanwhile, I’m scarlet.
And Dante, the bastard, openly laughs at my expense.
Despite my protests, he signs almost immediately.
“This house is perfect,” he tells me as he closes the file. “Give me one good reason not to buy it.”
“It’s… it’s too much.”
He gestures calmly to the space around us.
“Look at this place. We’ll be happy here. I can already picture our children running everywhere.”
“Yes, but... have you seen the price?”
“I don’t care about the price.”
His gaze settles on me with that quiet intensity that disarms me every time.
“This is our life we’re talking about. I want to enjoy every moment with you. But... if you’ve changed your mind, if you decide it’s too soon for us to move in together, or if you simply don’t like this place, I’ll respect your decision.”
He doesn’t push.
He doesn’t insist.
What do I want?
I slowly turn in a circle, taking everything in. Then my gaze returns to Dante.
I can see it too now. Our life here. Surrounded by friends and family, laughter, children running through the garden, and long summer evenings by the pool.
“Okay,” I tell him.
After the tour, he takes me to lunch at a restaurant he has partially privatized for the occasion.
We eat in a secluded private room, far from the noise, as though the entire world had been instructed to leave us alone today.
When we return to the manor, we settle onto the couch.
Dante starts sorting through the mail he had forwarded here. Bills, files, thick envelopes he opens absentmindedly.
Then, as he sets one of them on the coffee table, I notice something impossible.
My old phone number.
The one I had before I disappeared.
Still active.
I freeze for a second.
A painful ache moves through me at the realization that he kept this other trace of my existence. Little by little, I’m understanding just how hard he fought to keep me alive in his world.
Curiosity takes over.
“Do you still have the SIM card from my old phone?”
I’m almost certain he’s going to say no.
Instead, he gets up without a word, retrieves his wallet, and pulls out a small plastic SIM card from my old carrier.
He avoids my gaze as he hands it to me.
I take it gently, remove the chip from my current phone, and replace it with the old one.
Beside me, Dante is perfectly still.
Too still.
I dial my old voicemail.
An automated voice informs me that I have messages waiting.
A lot of messages.
I start listening.
There are dozens of them.
All from Dante.
In the first ones, he’s still searching for me. Still worried. Still refusing to understand.
“Where are you?”
“Please call me back.”
“Valeria… answer me.”
Then panic sets in.
“This isn’t possible. You can’t have left me.”
A shattered breath.
“How am I supposed to live without you?”
I close my eyes.
His voice sounds younger. More exposed. Completely devastated.
“Come back to me, my love. Please.”
I can already feel tears rising, but the voicemail continues.
The weeks pass through those messages.
Then the months.
His pain never fades. It simply changes shape.
“I miss you. I thought it would get easier with time.”
A humorless laugh.
“It’s not easier.”
I clutch the phone against me as though it contains something alive.
And then come the messages that destroy me completely.
“It’s our wedding anniversary today.”
Silence.
“No one remembers it. I do. I’d give anything to hear your voice one more time.”
His breathing falters.
“You know what I do every day?”
Another silence.
“I call your number just to hear your voicemail… and pretend you’re still alive.”
The phone trembles in my hands.
The first sob tears out of me before I can stop it.
For this man who talked into the void.
For this man who still loved me while everyone else believed I was dead.
For all those years when I existed nowhere except inside him.
Dante says nothing.
His arms simply wrap around me—steady and trembling at the same time.
So I hold on to him.
And he never loosens his hold.