6. Mel
— ? —
Mel
Present Day
I don’t sleep.
The rain stops around three in the morning, and I lie in bed listening to the silence where it used to be, staring at the ceiling, running through every possible version of how tomorrow could go.
I’m going to tell him everything.
That’s the plan I’ve settled on, somewhere between crying in the vineyard and dragging myself back to this room that doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It’s simple and it’s brave and it’s probably stupid, but it’s what I’ve got.
The photos, the threats, the baby growing in me that they think they can take.
I’m going to make Santino look me in the eye and tell me the truth, because he’s my husband.
Whatever this marriage has become, cold sheets and empty dinners and a distance I can’t cross no matter how hard I try, he owes me that much.
He owes me words from his own mouth, not filtered through his mother’s venom or Allegra’s smile.
If he’s been sleeping with her, I need to hear him say it.
If he wants a divorce, I need to hear him say it.
If he’s really willing to hand our baby over to Vittoria like an unwanted puppy, I need to hear him say it.
And then I’ll know. Then I can stop wondering, stop hoping, stop lying to myself in the dark.
The clock on my nightstand ticks past four. Past five.
He doesn’t come to bed.
I knew he wouldn’t. He hasn’t slept in this room in months, hasn’t reached for me in longer, hasn’t looked at me the way he used to in so long I’ve started to forget what it felt like.
But some pathetic part of me hoped anyway.
Some stupid, stubborn part of me thought maybe he’d sense it somehow. That I needed him tonight. That everything was about to shatter and he should be here to either catch the pieces or admit he’s the one who broke them.
He doesn’t come.
By six-thirty, the sky outside my window has gone from black to gray to the pale gold of early morning, and I’m still awake. Still waiting. Still alone.
I drag myself out of bed. Splash water on my face in the bathroom, avoiding my reflection because I know what I’ll see, red eyes, blotchy skin, the face of a woman who’s been crying for hours and trying to pretend she hasn’t.
The face of someone who’s about to walk into a fire.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Okay. You can do this. You’re going to do this.”
I dry my face. Straighten my shoulders. Take three deep breaths that don’t actually help.
And I go to find my husband.
***
Santino’s office at the estate is on the second floor, at the end of a hallway lined with portraits of Bianchi ancestors who all seem to be judging me. I’ve walked this hall a hundred times, but today it feels longer. The air feels thicker. Every step takes more effort than the last.
I can hear voices as I approach.
Low, murmured, speaking in Italian.
I stop outside the door, which is cracked open just enough to let sound through, and I tell myself to keep walking. To push through. To announce myself and demand answers.
But then I hear my name.
“-Melanie isn’t the priority right now.”
Santino’s voice, flat and distracted, like he’s talking about a business expense he needs to write off.
“It doesn’t matter,” he continues. “I’ll handle it myself.”
My hand freezes on the doorframe.
“That’s my son.” Vittoria’s voice, warm and satisfied in a way that makes my skin crawl. “I knew you’d come around. And the baby?”
The baby.
She’s told him. Of course she’s told him. She had the test results sent directly to her, why wouldn’t she use them?
I hold my breath, waiting for his response.
Please, I think. Please say the one thing that makes this make sense. Please tell her to go to hell. Please be the man I married, the one who promised me every shirt he owned, the one who said nothing I say is throwaway to me.
Please.
“You can keep it.”
Three words. His voice, casual and cold.
“I’m not even sure she wants it.”
The floor drops out from under me.
I grab the wall to keep from falling, and the part of me that’s been holding on for months, years, forever, finally breaks.
He knows I’m pregnant.
He knows, and he’s handing our baby to his mother like it’s nothing. Like I’m nothing. Like everything we built together was an asset to be divided up and disposed of.
You can keep it.
I’m going to be sick.
I back away from the door, one hand pressed over my mouth, tears streaming down my face in silence because I can’t let them hear me, I can’t let them know I’m here, I can’t -
The door opens.
“Oh.” Vittoria’s voice, pleasant as morning. “You’re here.”
I turn.
She’s standing in the doorway, perfectly composed, her smile exactly as warm as it was when she told me about the pregnancy last night. Behind her, I can see a sliver of Santino’s office, his desk, his chair, the window that looks out over the vineyards.
I can’t see him.
Maybe that’s a mercy.
“Just the one I was looking for,” Vittoria continues, stepping into the hallway and pulling the door closed behind her. “I have something for you.”
She reaches into her jacket, that elegant cream blazer, the kind of quiet expensive that announces itself by refusing to, and withdraws a folded document.
Thick paper. Official-looking.
She holds it out to me.
“Santino asked me to give you this.”
I take it. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely unfold it, but I manage somehow, and the words swim in front of my eyes until they finally settle into focus.
PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE
The room goes cold.
I scan the document, the legalese, the dates, the clauses about division of assets and grounds for termination, and then I see it.
His signature.
At the bottom of the last page, in his handwriting, his name. Santino Bianchi. The same signature I’ve seen on birthday cards and love notes and the lease for our first apartment. I know that signature. I’d know it anywhere.
He signed this.
He’s asking for a divorce.
“I know this is difficult,” Vittoria says, and her voice has gone soft, almost sympathetic. “But it’s better this way, don’t you think? A clean break. You can go back to America. Start fresh. Find someone more… suitable.”
I can’t speak.
I can’t breathe.
There’s nothing to do but stand here holding the document that ends my marriage, signed in my husband’s own hand.
“The settlement offer is very generous,” she continues. “More than generous, really, considering the circumstances. But Santino has always been sentimental. He wanted to make sure you’d be comfortable.”
Comfortable.
She’s talking about money. About paying me off. About wrapping up the last three years of my life in a neat little package with a bow on top.
“He’s leaving for Tokyo tomorrow,” Vittoria adds. “I’d suggest you be gone by the time he returns. It will be easier for everyone.”
She reaches out, pats my arm like I’m a child she’s consoling.
“Take some time to process. Pack your things. Say your goodbyes.” Her smile widens, shows teeth. “And Melanie? Thank you for understanding.”
She walks past me, heels clicking on the marble floor, and disappears around the corner.
I stand there.
The petition shakes in my grip.
I look down at his signature again, and again, and again, like if I stare at it long enough it will transform into a different thing. A forgery. A mistake. Anything but what it is.
But it doesn’t change.
Nothing changes.
This is real. This is happening. My husband has signed away our marriage and handed our baby to his mother and he couldn’t even tell me himself.
I fold the petition carefully. Press it flat against my stomach, against the baby growing there. And I walk back to my room on legs that don’t feel like mine.
The tears have stopped.
That’s the strange thing. I’ve been crying for hours, for days, for what feels like forever, but now, holding the proof of my complete and total destruction, I can’t find any tears left.
I’m empty.
Hollowed out.
A shell of a woman who used to believe in love.
I sit on the edge of my bed and I stare at that signature until the light changes and the morning turns to afternoon and I realize, finally, that there’s only one thing left to do.
Tonight.
I’ll give him one more chance tonight.
And then I’ll know for sure.