7. Elysa
SEVEN
Elysa
I sat stiffly in the back of the sedan, staring out of the tinted window as Rome blurred past, my hands clenched in my lap to keep them from trembling.
I could still feel the phantom pinch of Patrizia’s cold fingers at my waist, the faint scent of her perfume clinging to the fabric of the dark blue dress she insisted Dante had chosen for me.
“You look very nice, cara …Elysa,” Dante said politely.
“Patrizia as always outdid herself.”
Classic left-handed compliment, right on cue.
“ Grazie ,” I replied just as politely, not having the energy to tell him to shut the hell up, so I didn’t feel like jumping out of a moving car.
Dante didn’t even look up from his phone as he asked, “She didn’t say anything mean, now, did she? ”
The way he said it was beyond condescending—downright insulting.
It wasn’t a question; it was a dismissal.
Like I was some hysterical, immature woman who overreacted to everything.
Like the problem wasn’t Patrizia—it was me.
“She made that hideous sound,” I murmured, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
I was speaking more to myself than to Dante.
“What sound?” he asked distractedly, his tone far too casual as if we were discussing the weather.
I swallowed hard, staring down at my lap, feeling intensely vulnerable.
“When she zipped me up. She looked at me in the mirror, tugged the fabric, and made a noise. A grunt. Like….” I trailed off, shaking my head.
Finally, Dante glanced up.
“Like what, Elysa?”
“Like disgust.” I felt my throat tighten.
“Like I’m a fat cow, just like she said before. Only this time, she didn’t have to say the words. She made sure I felt them.”
Dante sighed, setting his phone down on the seat next to him.
He looked at me, his brow furrowed in mild exasperation, the way someone might look at a child who refused to let go of a pointless tantrum.
“Elysa, I told you—Patrizia wouldn’t say something like that. She’s professional. If she made a noise, it was probably because she was focused on the fit of the dress, not you.”
I stared at him, incredulous .
“She’s detail-oriented, Elysa,” he continued.
“Which is why she’s one of the best in her field.”
“She’s also cold and condescending,” I snapped, my insecurity replaced by resentment.
“But you wouldn’t see that, would you? She makes sure to act perfectly sweet around you.”
He let out another sigh like he couldn’t believe he had to keep talking about this.
“You’re reading too much into this. Patrizia isn’t your enemy, Elysa. You’re letting your emotions get the better of you.”
I laughed bitterly, the sound hollow.
“Dante, I stood there while she pulled at the dress like it wasn’t going to fit over my thighs, while she looked at me like I was some kind of problem she had to solve.”
“You’re overreacting… again .” His tone was infuriatingly dismissive.
My chest tightened, fury bubbling up so hot I could feel its fervor raging through my body.
“Or maybe I’m just reacting for the first time since we married?”
He didn’t respond right away, and the silence between us stretched thick and uncomfortable.
Finally, he looked at me, his eyes blank.
No affection, no anger, nothing.
“Let’s just get through tonight,” he clipped.
“And since this is the last time we’re going to go to a social event together, there’s no need for an outburst. I’m sure we can tolerate each other for an evening.”
I turned back to the window, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes.
I wasn’t going to cry in front of him.
But it was hard to swallow the truth—that my husband, the man I had fallen in love with, didn’t respect me.
My opinions, my feelings…
they didn’t matter enough to him.
He just didn’t care enough.
But by the time we arrived at the ballroom, my emotions were locked away, buried beneath the careful mask I had perfected.
When I first married Dante, I had thought I would enjoy events like this—glamorous evenings where my handsome husband stood by my side, where I wore a stunning dress, and we whispered to each other while the world sailed around us.
But at the very first party, I realized it was all for show.
Couples didn’t stay together; they drifted, mingled, laughed, flirted—always in Italian.
Now, at least, I understood and spoke passable Italian.
But in the beginning?
I had felt like a doll—brought out to be seen, not heard.
Dante never bothered to translate when I was with him, nor did he switch to English to make me feel included.
Oh no, he let me sit there, uncomfortable and excluded, as if it never even crossed his mind.
When Don Giordano was alive, he always spoke to me in English and made sure others did the same.
He made me feel like I belonged.
But now he was gone.
My heart ached with the fresh weight of his absence.
I missed him.
I missed the way he had made me feel seen.
And then my heart hurt some more when Dante was, as always, accosted by Lucia.
“Elysa, I just need my boss for a minute.” That was her way of saying this is about work .
Dante smiled and bowed.
“I’ll be right back, cara mia .”
“Take your time.” I plastered on a polite smile even though my stomach twisted to the point of physical pain.
This hurt more now than before because he’d admitted that he found Lucia more suitable than me to be his wife.
What did it take for me to be accepted for who I was?
My mother wanted me to—preferably—be a nun.
My father hadn’t bothered to build a relationship with me, though he was all smiles when Don Giordano gave him his vineyard back—which, in all honesty, had only on paper not been my father’s.
Don Giordano was a generous man.
And now, my husband preferred the willowy Lucia, draped in a silver gown that shimmered underneath the chandeliers at the Villa Medici.
I understood Dante.
Lucia fit.
I doubted she needed a stylist to help her as much as I did for events such as this.
She grew up with money, and I didn’t know a designer from my ass.
They stood talking, and feeling a little pathetic for watching them, I walked to the bar.
Since I put together the menu for this shindig, I knew the wine would be good.
I ordered a glass of champagne and watched Dante lean down to Lucia, his hand brushing her elbow.
He’d told his friend he’d not cheated on his marriage vows, but I wondered.
There was an intimacy between them that he and I didn’t have.
"Signora Giordano," Renzo Carrera greeted me warmly.
In true Italian fashion, we exchanged the customary two-cheek kiss, a brush of cheeks, and air kisses.
"Signor Carrera, come stai ?"
“I’m doing very well,” he responded in English.
Just then, Lucia laughed loudly at something Dante said, her head thrown back.
She touched his arm, and he smiled at her, his expression softer than it had been when he had told me I was a toddler throwing a tantrum just a while earlier in the car.
Renzo’s eyes didn’t miss the show that Lucia and Dante were putting on.
Why did he bring me here if he was going to flaunt to everyone that he was interested in another woman?
How did this help his case with Renzo Carrera?
“I never thought talking work was that amusing,” he remarked, his eyes narrow .
“Oh, you know Dante, he makes work fun. Well, that’s what Giulia, his assistant, told me.”
No, she didn’t.
Dante didn’t make work fun—he was a demanding boss and ruthless in his ambitions.
Renzo arched an eyebrow as if he knew what I was doing.
“Dante loved you.”
He wasn’t talking about my Dante; he was talking about Don Giordano.
Still, a rush went through me at the thought that my Dante…
well, Lucia’s now, could love me.
“I miss him very much,” I murmured and sipped my champagne, the delicate bubbles of the Taittinger Blanc de Blancs soft against my tongue.
I’d have preferred an Italian sparkling wine, but I knew this crowd would expect the real deal—champagne.
“You know I know about your marriage,” Renzo continued and nodded to the bartender, pointing to his empty glass of wine.
I cleared my throat.
Well, this was awkward.
“Signor, ah….”
The waiter slid a glass of wine close to Renzo, who exchanged the full glass for his empty one and raised it to toast.
“ Saluti .”
I clinked my glass against his, wishing very much to find a way out of this conversation.
Even Don Giordano and I hadn’t talked about the circumstances of my marriage—he only asked how I was doing since I was a new bride .
“Does your husband know you’re in love with him?” he asked.
I had just taken a sip of champagne, and it went down the wrong pipe.
I had to set the glass down on the bar counter as I coughed.
Renzo gave me a cloth napkin, and it took a moment before I stopped wheezing.
He looked at me, amused when I was breathing normally again.
“ Si , Dante knew,” he answered my unasked question if Don Giordano had known, “And, Elysa, anyone with eyes can see that you love him.” He kissed my cheek.
“If you love him, cara , you must fight for him.”
I sighed and then shrugged.
“I’m tired of fighting for the love and attention of people in my life, Signor. I’d now like to have someone fight for me .”
Renzo nodded appreciatively.
“You deserve that. My wife adores you. My son thinks you’re the most beautiful woman he’s ever met. You’re right; a man should be afraid of losing you.” He turned to look at Dante, and I followed his line of sight.
Now, he and Lucia were dancing, looking like a happy and perfectly-suited couple.
“I think Dante’s loss will be another fortunate man’s gain.”
“I don’t need a man, Signor,” I quipped.
“I think I’m done with men for a while.”
“We’ll see,” Renzo stated enigmatically.
I wandered to our assigned table and sat where my name card rested, the elegant script looping over crisp ivory cardstock .
The table was stunning—a masterpiece of understated beauty.
A delicate centerpiece of creamy roses and deep burgundy peonies spilled from a low crystal vase, surrounded by flickering votive candles that cast a soft, golden glow.
The place settings were pristine: gleaming silver cutlery, fine porcelain plates with intricate gold edging, and crystal glasses that caught the light like tiny prisms.
It was a table designed to make you sit up straighter as if the elegance could rub off on you.
I slumped in my chair, setting my champagne glass on the table with a quiet clink.
With nothing else to do, I pulled out my phone—not because I had any urgent messages, but because staring at a screen was better than sitting here, feeling invisible.
I didn’t know many people in Dante’s world, and at events like this, that meant one thing: I sat alone.
Alone, while my husband mingled, charmed, and—more often than not—flirted with Lucia.
And when he finally did return to our table?
He barely looked at me, sinking instead into conversation with whoever was beside him—more often than not, her.
I glanced down at the table and then—because an imp inside me begged for release—slid Lucia’s name card out of its holder.
With practiced nonchalance, I relocated her to a table where she’d be stuck with Franco Mancini and Gino Conti, two men whose idea of engaging dialogue involved heated debates over crop rotations and the merits of organic fertilizers.
Franco owned a sprawling vineyard in Tuscany, and Gino was an agricultural consultant, both highly respected in their fields—but neither exactly known for keeping a woman like Lucia entertained.
Soil acidity, harvest yields, irrigation techniques?
That would be her thrilling discussion for the night.
As a final flourish, I seated her beside Vittoria Bellini, Dante’s second cousin, who had two notable qualities: an obsessive dedication to cataloging her extensive shoe collection and a deep-rooted dislike for Lucia.
The feeling, as far as I could tell, was mutual.
A perfect trio of tedium.
I moved a few more name settings and relocated a couple from Lucia’s new table to ours.
I straightened Lucia’s name card with a satisfied smirk, suppressing the wicked grin threatening to break free.
Let the games begin.
I sat back right when people started to come to their tables.
I spoke to my neighbor, a gentleman I hadn’t met before, and his wife.
Signor Colombo ran one of the largest banks in Italy, and his wife was a pediatrician.
I liked that Susanna Colombo—well, Dr.
Susanna Colombo—was not a society wife.
We were having a great discussion about the psychology of wine tasting and how scent and memory were intrinsically linked when Dante finally deigned to find his seat, and his suited arm brushed against my naked one.
Lucia looked at the card next to Dante and frowned.
“I thought I was at your table.”
I smiled innocently at Lucia.
Susanna chuckled, and I wondered if she’d seen me move Lucia’s name card.
“You know, Cristina, she’s been making last-minute changes to the table seating,” Susanna said.
“It’s so like her to keep at it,” her husband offered, his lips pursed as if he was pushing back a smile.
These were good people, I thought giddily.
“I think you’re there.” Susanna pointed to the table where I’d put her name card and confirmed that she had seen my little maneuver.
“Right next to Gino Conti and…Vittoria Bellini.”
Lucia kept her smile tight and patted Dante’s shoulder.
“I’ll see if someone will move here and?—”
“It’s fine,” Dante assured her.
“Enjoy your meal. We can talk work at work.”
No, really?
Work at work?
I rolled my eyes and caught Susanna’s wink as she tilted her head.
I bowed my head and mouthed, “ Grazie .”
So, okay, it wasn’t my finest moment.
I’d let jealousy get the best of me, but now that the heat of it had passed, all that remained was a cold, sinking certainty—Dante and I were done .
And yet, here I was, still fighting for him in my own covert, ridiculous ways, just as Renzo Carrera had pointed out.
It was hopeless.
I was hopeless.
I picked up my champagne glass and took a gulp.
The bubbles fizzed against my tongue but couldn’t chase away the bitterness that had lodged in my chest— oh no , that would take several glasses of wine, and the pain would come back along with a hangover.
Dante spoke politely with his companions, asking them how they were enjoying their meal as it was served.
He complimented the wine and Cristina Carrera’s fine taste.
I wondered what he’d think if he knew I had set the food and wine menu together.
He would probably think I was exaggerating my influence.
He then talked to Signor Colombo and Susanna, whom he knew.
Of course he did; this exclusive society circle was incestuous, and everyone knew each other.
As I watched Dante, I noticed something painfully obvious—with Lucia, he was at ease.
With me?
Not so much.
And that was all I needed to internalize whenever I wavered with regards to my marriage with Dante.
I resolved, yet again, that this was the last time I’d play this role for him.
The heartache wasn’t worth it.
The worst part?
Dante didn’t even seem to notice how much this hurt me.
Not once had he looked at me, really seen me .
No, we’d both fallen neatly into the roles we established over the past year—I, the foolish wife still in love with her husband (which, according to Signor Carrera, was obvious to anyone with eyes) and, Dante, my husband who felt trapped in a marriage he never wanted.