Chapter 12 Giulia
GIULIA
Ipractice the words in my bathroom mirror, my face pale and drawn in the harsh fluorescent light.
"Luca, I need to tell you something. I need you to listen before you react."
No. Too formal. Too distant.
"There's something I should have told you from the beginning. Something important."
Better. But still not right.
I try again, my hands gripping the edge of the sink so hard my knuckles turn white. "I'm Giulia. I've always been Giulia. Valentina doesn't exist—she's just a name I used because I was afraid. Because I needed to be close to you and this was the only way I knew how."
The words sound hollow. How do I explain weeks and weeks of deception?
How do I make him understand that every moment we shared was real, even if the name I gave him wasn't? I imagine his face when I tell him.
I try to picture the moment of recognition, the shock, the anger.
I prepare myself for the worst while hoping desperately for something better.
Maybe he'll be angry at first. That's natural. Expected. But then he'll understand. He'll see that I did this because I love him, because I've loved him for years, because being Valentina was the only way I could have him.
And then I'll tell him about the baby.
That will change everything. It has to. We're not just two people anymore—we're going to be a family. That will matter to him… he’ll see that despite how this all started, this is a solution. There’s no explanation for the way I’ve been feeling him unravel night after night except for the fact that my upcoming wedding is destroying him as much as it is me.
I take a breath and stare into the mirror, and try again.
I practice different versions throughout the week. In the shower, while getting dressed, during the endless wedding appointments that fill my days. I rehearse the words until they feel smooth and natural, until I can say them without my voice shaking.
"I'm pregnant with your baby. And I know this is a shock, but I need you to understand—I love you. I've always loved you. And we can make this work. We have to make this work."
Sometimes, in my imagination, he pulls me into his arms immediately.
He tells me he loves me too, that he's always known somehow that Valentina and Giulia were the same woman and that he clung to the necessity of the deception too, that we'll figure this out together.
Sometimes he's angry, but eventually comes around.
Sometimes he needs time, but promises to come back.
I never let myself imagine the version where he walks away. I never let myself think about the scenario where he looks at me with disgust and betrayal and tells me he never wants to see me again. That version is too terrifying to contemplate.
So I focus on the others. The ones where love wins, where the truth, however painful, brings us closer instead of tearing us apart. I tell myself that's what will happen. I have to believe it, because the alternative is unthinkable.
The night that we’re supposed to meet at the club, I can barely think straight, barely eat dinner, or focus on the conversation happening around me.
My father is discussing security arrangements for the wedding.
Luca is at dinner too, and I can feel his eyes on me as I stare at my plate.
I wonder if he can tell, if he can see the anxiety radiating from me, the way my hands tremble slightly when I reach for my water glass.
If he can feel that in a few hours, I'm going to shatter both our worlds.
The club is busy tonight when I get there, the music loud and pulsing, bodies moving on the dance floor in various states of undress.
I make my way through the crowd to our private room, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Luca is at the bar as always, a glass of something between his palms. I feel my breath catch in my throat.
In a few minutes, I'll tell him everything. Who am I? Why I lied. That I'm carrying his child. And then—I don't know what happens then.
I have to believe it will be okay, that the connection between us is strong enough to survive this.
He turns and sees me, and I know immediately that something is wrong as he gets up and walks toward me. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a tightness around his eyes, like he's carrying the weight of something heavy and terrible.
"Hey," I say when he reaches me. My voice sounds strange to my own ears—too high, too nervous.
"Hey." He looks at me, but doesn’t move to take us upstairs or do anything at all yet. He just stands there, his hands in his pockets and his expression distant.
The anxiety that's been building all day intensifies into something close to panic. This isn't how I imagined this conversation starting. He's supposed to be warm, affectionate, present, needy for me like he always is. Not this closed-off stranger who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, taking a step toward him.
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration I've seen before. "Something came up at work. Family business. It's—complicated."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I can't." The words are flat. "It's not something I can discuss."
The distance between us feels like a chasm. I want to cross it, to touch him and remind him of the connection we share. But something holds me back. Some instinct that tells me he's not ready for that right now.
"Luca—"
"I might not be able to meet as regularly for a while," he says, cutting me off. "The next few weeks are going to be intense. There's a lot happening, and I need to focus."
The panic explodes into full-blown terror. He's pulling away. Right when I need him most, right when I'm about to tell him everything, he's pulling away.
"How long?" The question comes out strangled.
"I don't know. A few weeks, maybe. Until after—" He stops himself and shakes his head. "I just need some time to handle things."
A few weeks. If he disappears now, if I can't see him, can't tell him—
"I need to tell you something." The words burst out of me desperately. "Something important."
He looks at me then, and I see concern flash across his face. "What is it? Are you okay?"
This is it. This is the moment. I should tell him now, should just say the words and let the chips fall where they may.
But he looks so stressed, so burdened, and I'm about to add to that burden in the most catastrophic way possible.
What if he can't handle it right now? What if the timing is so wrong that he reacts worse than he would otherwise?
What if I lose him because I chose the wrong moment?
And the last thing in the world I want is to tell him here, surrounded by the heavy beat of the music and a crowd. I imagined us alone, in the quiet, intimate, and close like we’ve been all the nights before.
"Valentina?" His voice is gentler now, worried. "What's wrong?"
I open my mouth, close it, and then finally manage to speak. "It can wait," I hear myself say. "It's not—it can wait until things settle down for you."
He studies my face for a long moment, and I can see him trying to decide whether to push and demand the truth right now. But then he just nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Okay. We'll talk soon. I promise."
He crosses the distance between us and pulls me into his arms, and I cling to him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's spinning out of control. His lips find mine, and the kiss is gentler than it’s been before, the club fading around us as I feel his fingers against my chin.
"I have to go," he murmurs against my mouth. "But I'll text you. As soon as I can, we'll meet again." His thumb skims below my lip. “You should go, too. No one else, Valentina.”
And then he lets me go, walking past me toward the entrance of the club. I stand there, my heart pounding, and feel the panic rising like a tide.
I failed. I had the chance to tell him, and I failed.
And now he's pulling away, and I'm running out of time.
—
I go back to Liesl’s and sneak back in, feeling like I can’t breathe through the anxiety that's threatening to suffocate me.
What have I done?
I should have told him. I should have forced the words out regardless of his stress, regardless of the timing. Now I don't know when I'll see him again, and every day that passes is another day closer to the wedding, another day where my body changes and the pregnancy becomes harder to hide.
I have to tell him. I have to find a way. I can't wait any longer.
But what if he doesn't want to see me? What if these "few weeks" turn into longer? What if he's already pulling away, already losing interest, and I'm about to confess everything to a man who doesn't want me anymore? The thoughts spiral darker and darker, my heart racing.
I can't do this. I can't keep living this double life, can't keep carrying these secrets and pretending everything is fine when my entire world is falling apart.
I close my eyes and try to sleep, but my mind won't quiet. It keeps playing through different scenarios, different versions of how the conversation will go when it finally happens. And now, instead of pushing away the one where he leaves, it’s all I can think about, playing on repeat and getting clearer and more vivid each time.
The version where he looks at me with horror and disgust, where he realizes that I've been lying to him for so long, deceiving him in the worst way possible. Where he feels that every moment we shared was built on deception, that I've been manipulating him, using him, playing him for a fool.
In that version, he walks away, and I'm left alone with a baby and a broken heart and the knowledge that I destroyed the only good thing in my life.
I push the thought away. That's not what will happen. It can't be what happens. I love him. And he loves me—I know he does, even if he doesn't know it's me he loves.
Love has to be enough. It has to be.