16. Cassandra
— ? —
Cassandra
The morning sickness hits at the worst possible moment.
I’m in the middle of explaining selvage grain to a potential customer - a woman from town who wants a custom dress for her daughter’s wedding - when my stomach does that familiar lurch that means I have about thirty seconds to get somewhere private.
“Excuse me,” I manage, “I’ll be right back.”
I make it to the small bathroom in the back room just in time. The retching is miserable and undignified, and I’m gripping the edge of the toilet and hating my body’s timing when I hear the front bell jingle and Antonio’s voice calling out.
“Cass? Where are you?”
“Back here.” The words come out weak. “Give me a minute.”
But he’s already at the bathroom door, hovering in the threshold with that worried expression he’s been wearing constantly for the past two weeks.
“I’m fine,” I say, before he can ask. “Just the usual morning ambush. It’ll pass.”
“Can I do anything?”
“Unless you can transfer this pregnancy to yourself for the next six months, no.”
He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he crouches down beside me, careful to give me space but close enough that I can feel his presence.
“Your hair,” he says quietly. “Can I-?”
I’m about to say no, about to wave him off with some sharp comment about managing on my own, but then another wave hits and I don’t have the energy for pride. I just nod, and his hands gather my hair back from my face, gentle and careful, holding it away while my body does its miserable work.
When it’s finally over, I sit back against the wall, exhausted and embarrassed, and he hands me a damp washcloth that he must have grabbed from the shelf.
“The customer,” I say. “The woman looking at wedding dresses…”
“I told her you’d stepped away and offered her some water. She’s browsing the fabric samples.”
“You offered her water?”
“I’ve been watching you do it for two weeks. I can handle basic hospitality.”
I press the cool cloth against my face and try to collect myself. Ten weeks pregnant, and the morning sickness shows no signs of letting up. The doctor said it usually eases in the second trimester, but right now that feels like a lifetime away.
“Thank you,” I say. “For the hair thing.”
“Anytime.”
I get to my feet, using the wall for support, and he steps back to give me room. We’ve gotten good at this dance - close enough to help, far enough to respect the boundaries I’ve set. It’s exhausting and comforting in equal measure.
“I should get back out there,” I say.
“I’ll make some tea. Ginger, right? That’s supposed to help.”
“Since when do you know what helps with morning sickness?”
“Since I spent three hours reading about it online last Tuesday.”
I stare at him. “You researched morning sickness?”
“I researched everything. First trimester symptoms, nutrition, what to expect at each stage. I figured if I’m going to be useful, I should at least be informed.”
Something shifts in my chest. It’s such a small thing - a man reading about pregnancy - but it’s exactly the kind of attention he never paid before. The kind of showing up that used to be beyond him.
“Ginger tea would be good,” I say.
***
The customer leaves with a deposit on a custom gown, and I spend the next hour sketching design options while Antonio organizes the back room.
He’s gotten surprisingly good at the physical work - hauling fabric, arranging supplies, doing the heavy lifting that leaves me more winded than it used to.
Ten weeks pregnant now, and the fatigue hits at odd moments. He never complains, never suggests a better way, just does whatever I ask and asks what’s next.
It’s disconcerting. Like living with a stranger who looks like my husband.
I’m deep in a design problem - figuring out how to modify a bodice pattern for the customer’s specific measurements - when the front bell jingles again.
“I’ll get it,” Antonio calls from the back.
“No, I’ve got it…”
But I’m already looking up, and the words die in my throat.
Bianca Fioravanti is standing in my atelier.
She looks exactly like she did on television - polished and beautiful and radiating the kind of effortless glamour that I used to envy and now find exhausting.
She’s wearing a designer dress that probably costs more than my monthly rent, and she’s looking around the shop with an expression of studied interest.
“Cassandra,” she says, like we’re old friends. “What a charming little space you’ve created.”
I set down my pencil slowly. “The shop isn’t open for browsing.”
“Oh, I’m not here to browse. I’m just curious.” She runs her finger along a bolt of silk, examining it like she’s checking for dust. “I’ve been hearing so much about your little project. Everyone in town is talking about it.”
“Then everyone in town knows more than you do.”
“Ouch.” She smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Still so prickly. I had hoped the country air might have mellowed you.”
Antonio appears in the doorway to the back room, and I see him clock Bianca’s presence. His whole body goes tense, but he doesn’t move forward, doesn’t insert himself into the conversation.
He’s learning - learning that I need to fight my own battles, that charging in to rescue me only reinforces the idea that I can’t handle things myself.
“What do you want, Bianca?”
“I told you. I’m curious.” She picks up one of my design sketches from the counter, studying it with exaggerated attention. “I saw your interview request come through my publicist’s office. Very flattering, really - the wronged wife seeking revenge through the press. It’s a classic narrative.”
“I haven’t sent any interview requests.”
“No? Then someone’s using your name. How embarrassing for them.” She sets down the sketch. “I just wanted to see for myself what you’ve been building here. The great Cassandra Acardi-Guerriero, former model, current… what? Seamstress?”
“Designer.”
“Is there a difference? You’re still cutting fabric in a rented storefront in a town no one’s ever heard of.” She tilts her head, studying me. “It must be strange, going from red carpets to… this. Though I suppose it’s nice to finally have something of your own, even if it is just a hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby.”
“Of course not. It’s a career.” She pronounces the word like it’s a joke. “A career you started after your marriage fell apart and your husband’s actual career made yours unnecessary. Very inspiring.”
I feel the anger rising, but I keep my voice level. “Did you come here just to insult me, or is there a point to this visit?”
“I came to understand.” Bianca moves closer, dropping her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “I’ve been trying to figure out what Antonio ever saw in you. And now, seeing this…”
She gestures at the shop, at my sketches, at me.
“I think I understand. You were convenient. A pretty face with no ambitions of her own, happy to fade into the background while he built something real. But convenience fades, doesn’t it?
And when it does, men start looking for something more… substantial.”
“Substantial like you?”
“Like someone who can stand beside him instead of behind him.” Her smile sharpens. “Someone who doesn’t need to hide in a small town playing dress-up to feel important.”
The words hit exactly where she intended them to - at the tender places where my own doubts still live. But I’ve spent too many weeks rebuilding myself to let Bianca Fioravanti tear it down with a few well-placed cruelties.
“You know what I’ve noticed about you, Bianca?” I keep my voice pleasant, conversational. “You’re very good at talking about what other people lack. Their ambition, their substance, their ability to hold a man’s attention. But I’ve never once heard you talk about what you actually have.”
Her smile flickers.
“You don’t have talent that speaks for itself - if you did, you wouldn’t need to insert yourself into other people’s narratives to get attention.
You don’t have relationships that sustain you - if you did, you wouldn’t be in Calabria picking fights with a woman whose husband you couldn’t actually steal.
And you clearly don’t have anything better to do with your time, because here you are, standing in my hobby shop, trying to make me feel small. ”
I step forward, and she steps back. Instinctive.
“Here’s what I have, Bianca. I have a business I built with my own hands.
I have a family who loves me. I have a baby on the way…
” I see her eyes widen slightly, registering the information.
“And I have the absolute certainty that whatever happens next in my life, it won’t involve chasing other women’s husbands or staging sick-room scenes to destroy marriages.
So thank you for stopping by. The door is that way. ”
For a long moment, she doesn’t move. Then she smooths her dress, composes her expression, and walks toward the exit with all the dignity she can muster.
“This isn’t over,” she says quietly as she passes.
“It is for me.”
The bell jingles as she leaves. I stand very still, waiting for my heart rate to settle, waiting for the adrenaline to fade.
Antonio appears beside me. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“That was - you were incredible.”
“I was pissed off. Adrenaline does wonders for articulation.”
He doesn’t push it. Just goes back to organizing the storage room - the task I’d assigned him earlier, sorting bolts by weight and fiber content.
I turn back to my sketches. The anger is fading, leaving something quieter in its wake. Not satisfaction, exactly. More like clarity. Bianca can say whatever she wants about me. She can call me a seamstress, a hobby shop owner, a convenient wife. But she can’t make any of it true.
I know who I am now. I’m building something that matters.
An hour later, when I reach for the switch over my cutting table - the one that’s been flickering for days, the bulb I keep meaning to replace - the light clicks on steady and bright. No flicker. No hesitation. Just clean, warm illumination spreading across my work.
I stare at it for a moment, confused. Then I glance toward the storage room, where I can hear Antonio shifting fabric bolts and humming something off-key.
He didn’t mention it. Didn’t announce it or wait for thanks. Just saw the problem and fixed it, sometime between my confrontation with Bianca and now, while I was absorbed in my sketches and didn’t notice.
I run my hand along the edge of the cutting table, feeling the warmth of the new light on my skin.
It’s such a small thing.
It shouldn’t matter as much as it does.