5. Senna
— ? —
Senna
The label studio is across town, a sleek modern building that always makes me feel underdressed.
I’ve only been here a handful of times over the years - Rocco’s territory, not mine - but I know my way to his usual room, the one with the view of the Arno and the piano that costs more than most people’s cars.
I’ve been carrying the demo for almost two weeks now, waiting for the right moment that never comes. But today I woke up with something like determination - or maybe desperation - and decided that if he won’t make time to listen at home, I’ll bring the music to him.
The elevator opens on the fourth floor, and I step into a hallway full of framed gold records and industry awards. The receptionist recognizes me and waves me through without checking, which feels like a small victory until I realize it might just mean I’m furniture here too.
I can hear voices as I approach Rocco’s studio - his voice and someone else’s, a man, probably Marco or one of the label executives. The door is slightly ajar, and I’m reaching for the handle when I hear my husband say something that stops me cold.
“ - brought me back to life. I’m not exaggerating, Marco. I’d forgotten what this felt like.”
“The single shows it,” Marco’s voice responds. “This is the Rocco we signed. This is who you were always supposed to be.”
“I was dying. Creatively, I mean. Completely dead inside. And now I’m not. For the first time in eighteen months, I actually feel something when I sit down at the piano.”
“Fiorella deserves a lot of credit.”
“She does. God, she really does. She understood what I needed in a way that-” He pauses, and I hold my breath. “I’d been feeling loveless for so long. That’s the only word for it. Loveless. Like everything that used to make music possible had just… dried up.”
Loveless.
The word hits me like a physical blow. I take a step back from the door, my hand going to my chest like I can somehow hold myself together.
“And now?” Marco prompts.
“Now I remember why I started doing this. The collaboration changed everything. Fiorella - she gets it. She gets me, in a way I didn’t think anyone could anymore.”
I should leave. I should turn around and walk back to the elevator and pretend I never heard any of this. But my feet won’t move, and the door is right there, and some masochistic part of me needs to know how much worse it gets.
“What about Senna?” Marco asks, and my heart stops.
“What about her?”
“She’s been - I don’t know. She seems distant lately. At the events, the dinners. Like she’s not really there.”
“She’s been dealing with her own stuff.” Rocco’s voice is dismissive, almost impatient. “The collaboration has been hard on her. Having Fiorella around so much, it brings up old family dynamics.”
“But she’s supportive?”
“She’s always supportive. That’s what she does. That’s what she’s good at.”
That’s what she’s good at. Like supporting him is my function, my role, the thing I was designed for. Not a person with my own music, my own voice, my own career I gave up so he could have his.
“We should talk about the showcase,” Marco says, and the conversation moves on to logistics, guest lists, promotional strategies.
I stand in the hallway, frozen, the demo on my phone suddenly feeling like the most pathetic thing in the world.
I’d been feeling loveless for so long.
He meant the music. Some rational part of my brain knows that.
He was talking about creative drought, about the block, about not being able to access his emotions through his work. But that’s not what I heard.
What I heard was my husband telling his label president that he’s been loveless for eighteen months - the same eighteen months he’s been sleeping next to me, shutting me out while we were supposedly building a life together.
And what I heard was that Fiorella brought him back to life when I couldn’t.
My thumb finds the demo file on my phone.
I stare at it for a long moment, thinking about all the hours I spent in his studio, trying to make something beautiful, trying to prove I still existed as a musician, as a person, as someone worthy of being heard.
I press delete.
The file vanishes.
I turn and walk back to the elevator, and I don’t let myself feel anything until I’m in my car with the doors locked and the engine running.
Then I put my head on the steering wheel and let the tears come.
***
Three days pass. I move through them like a ghost.
I cook meals Rocco barely notices. I answer emails for his management, schedule appointments, keep the machinery of his career running smoothly.
I sleep next to him every night and wake up alone every morning, and I don’t mention the demo or the conversation I overheard or the way something inside me has turned to stone.
He doesn’t notice. Of course he doesn’t notice. He’s too busy being brought back to life by my sister.
On the fourth day, he finds me in the kitchen at dinner time, stirring a pasta sauce I can’t taste.
“Hey,” he says, coming up behind me. “That smells amazing.”
“Thanks.”
“I have news.” He’s practically vibrating with excitement. “The showcase is set. Saturday night, at the Teatro Maggio. Industry only, very exclusive. Marco says the buzz is already insane.”
“That’s great.”
“It’s going to be incredible. The single is perfect - Fiorella and I did the final mix yesterday. Best thing I’ve ever done. I really believe that.”
“I’m happy for you.”
He pauses, finally registering something in my tone. “Are you okay? You seem off.”
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You’ve been tired a lot lately.”
“It’s been a long few weeks.”
“It has.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, and I force myself not to flinch. “But it’s almost over. After the showcase, things will calm down. We’ll take a trip somewhere. Just the two of us. Remember how we used to do that? Before everything got so complicated?”
“I remember.”
“We’ll get back to that. I promise.” He kisses the top of my head. “I love you, you know. Whatever else is going on, that hasn’t changed.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe that the loveless he described was only ever about the music, that the distance between us is temporary, that we’ll find our way back to each other once the pressure is off.
But I heard what I heard. And I can’t unhear it.
“The showcase,” I say, stirring the sauce. “Saturday, you said?”
“Saturday night. It’s going to be huge.”
I wait. I wait for him to say the obvious thing, the thing any husband would say to his wife about a career-defining night. Come with me. I want you there. I need you there.
But he just keeps talking about the set list, about Marco’s promotional strategy, about how the industry hasn’t been this excited about anything in years. He talks and talks and never once does he say the words I’m waiting for.
“Sounds like a big night,” I say when he finally pauses for breath.
“The biggest. This is going to change everything, Senna.”
“I’m sure it will.”
He kisses my cheek - a quick, distracted peck - and heads toward the studio. “I should go over the arrangement one more time. Fiorella had some notes about the bridge.”
“Of course she did.”
If he hears the edge in my voice, he doesn’t show it. The studio door closes behind him, and I stand at the stove, stirring sauce I have no intention of eating, wondering when exactly I became someone who waits to be invited to her own husband’s life.
He didn’t ask me to come.
The thought sits in my chest like a stone.
Saturday night, the most important showcase of his career, and he announced it like he was reading a press release.
No invitation. No “I want you there.” No acknowledgment that I might have a stake in this too, that I might want to witness the thing I’ve been supporting from the shadows for seven years.
Maybe he assumes I’ll come. Maybe he thinks it’s so obvious that it doesn’t need saying.
Or maybe he just doesn’t think about me at all.
I turn off the burner and watch the sauce stop bubbling.
Saturday night. The Teatro Maggio. Industry only, very exclusive.
He didn’t ask me to come. And I’m not going to ask him if I can.
I’m just going to show up and see if he notices.