77 | Rip out my own heart to make hers whole
She's sleeping now.
Barely.
Her breathing is uneven, shallow, but at least she's not shaking anymore. The sedative took hold twenty minutes ago, and it dulled the storm that ripped through her like wildfire, ripped through me.
I sit in the chair near the bed, elbows on my knees, watching her chest rise and fall.
I could sit here for hours, just to see her eyelids twitch and her fingers curl against the sheets like she's holding on for dear life.
She's fine now, or as fine as she can be after the breakdown by the pool, after those videos ripped her open, sent her spiraling into a darkness I'd burn the world to pull her out of.
Dr. Navarro sits to my right, a notebook in her lap, her presence gentle but grounded. She's the psychologist I called in, and she's good, the best one in Italy and in the underworld.
"She's stabilizing," Navarro says softly, eyes still on her notes. "But she's not okay, Mr. Costa. This wasn't just a panic attack or mental breakdown."
No shit.
I drag a hand over my jaw. "I know."
The pool incident, the videos of Ciara, the way Aurelia sank, not fighting the water, like she wanted it to take her, it's a wound I can't unsee, a fear that's carved itself into my bones.
"Can you tell me about your wife's past?" she asks, her tone all professional.
I know I shouldn't betray Aurelia's trust by revealing her secrets, but I can't stand by and watch her hurt herself any longer. If I don't intervene, one day, she might end up taking her own life.
"My wife has been through hell since early childhood," I say, my eyes never leaving Aurelia, her face soft in sleep, free of the panic that gripped her hours ago.
"Her parents, her mother especially treated her like she was nothing, always comparing her to her older sister.
Her father was worse, ignored her, chose her older sister every time, left Aurelia scraping for scraps of love that never came.
It fucked her up. She doesn't talk about it much, but I see it every time someone mentions her family, it's like a switch flips in her mind. "
The doctor nods, scribbling something, her eyes flicking to Aurelia, then back to me.
I keep going, because she needs to understand, needs to help my wife where I can't.
"Her older sister, Ciara was a problem too," I say, my voice tightening, because even dead, that woman's shadow hurts Aurelia. "Ciara was a monster to her, she made Aurelia feel small and left alone, even tried todestroy her sister's friendships."
I pause, dragging a hand through my hair, because the rest is harder, rawer.
"Aurelia has even tried to kill herself once by jumping out a window," I tell the psychologist, the words scraping their way out of my throat like broken glass.
Dr. Navarro doesn't flinch, but her pen stills.
"She also drinks," I say, quieter now, my voice thick with guilt for not stopping it sooner.
"Every time she's hurt, every time the past comes up, she reaches for a bottle, whatever's close.
It's not just drinking, it's... escape. Or she runs like she can outrun her pain.
If she doesn't run, she yells, cries, breaks things.
She's unstable when it's about her family, her past. One mention, and she's gone, lost in this pain I can't pull her out of. "
Dr. Navarro looks up, her voice measured but gentle.
"It sounds like she's carrying significant trauma," she says, tapping her pen.
"From what you've described, her childhood neglect, the emotional abuse, the betrayal by her sister, it's likely she's developed post-traumatic stress disorder.
The drinking, the running, the outbursts, those are coping mechanisms, ways to manage pain she hasn't processed.
And the intensity, the way she swings from rage to despair, the fear of abandonment you've mentioned before.
.. it could point to borderline personality disorder, though I'd need to assess her directly to be sure. "
I nod, my jaw tight, because the words, PTSD, BPD, land like bullets.
"She's strong," I say, my voice fierce, because I need the doctor to know this, to see her like I do. "But when it hits, when she gets triggered, it's like she's fighting herself and I'm not enough to help her."
"You're doing more than you think,"Dr. Navarro says, her tone firm.
"You're here, you're listening, you're trying to understand her emotions.
That matters, Mr. Costa. For someone with BPD, if that's what she has, stability, knowing you won't leave, no matter how bad it gets, is everything.
She needs that, and she needs to feel safe to face her trauma, not run from it or harm herself. "
I look at Aurelia, her hand curled near her face, the gold ring glinting, and my chest aches, because I'd give her the world if I could, rip out my own heart to make hers whole.
"What do I do?" I ask, my voice low, almost a plea, because I'm not used to this, needing help, admitting I can't fix it alone.
"Be consistent," she says, "Be honest, patient.
Encourage her to talk, to see someone like me, but don't push too hard.
And keep her safe, physically, emotionally.
Whoever's targeting her, it's feeding her triggers, making it worse.
You're doing the right thing, protecting her, but help her feel in control too.
BPD thrives on fear of loss, show her you're not going anywhere. "
I nod, memorizing every word, because this is my fight now, her fight, our fight.
"She means everything to me," I say, my voice rough, a confession I don't care if the doctor hears. "I'll kill for her, die for her, but I want her to live, not just survive."
Dr. Navarropauses at the edge of her notepad, her eyes lifting from the ink to meet mine again.
"One last question, Luciano," she says carefully. "Has Aurelia ever hurt herself? I mean physically, cutting, burning, anything like that. Have you noticed any scars on her skin?"
The words hit like a gust of cold wind.
I freeze, my mind blank for a second too long.
"I—" I start, but my voice falters. I shake my head slowly, almost uncertain of it.
"Not that I know of. She doesn't... she bites her nails, badly.
Sometimes to the point they bleed. And I've seen her press her nails into her palms, hard, like she's grounding herself through pain.
But... cutting? No. I've never seen anything like that. .."
Dr. Navarro nods but doesn't write anything down. She's watching me now, measuring the silence that stretches between us like she's trying to read what I'm not saying.
I shift in the chair, something coiling tight in my chest.
"Do you think she has?" I ask quietly, hating the tremor in my voice. "Is that something she might be hiding from me?"
"It's possible," she says gently. "Many people with trauma, especially those with BPD, turn to self-harm as a way to release emotional pain.
It's not always visible. Some hide it carefully.
Scars on the thighs, the ribs, the stomach.
.. places not easily seen. And they often learn to mask the aftermath. "
I swallow hard, my throat dry.
Had I missed it? All this time with her, sharing a bed, her body so familiar to me I could sketch every curve blindfolded... and yet, the thought that she could be hiding something like that from me makes me feel sick.
"She showers alone," I murmur, my voice low. "Sometimes she locks the door, says she needs space. I thought she just wanted privacy. Or she never wears dresses or skirts that expose her back, they always reach her knees."
Dr. Navarro's voice is calm, but firm. "It wouldn't hurt to ask her, or I can ask her when she's more stable."
My heart is pounding with guilt.
Because what if she has hurt herself? What if she's cried silently in the bathroom, bleeding where I couldn't see, while I waited outside thinking she was just taking her time?
"She doesn't have to hide from me," I whisper, almost to myself. "If she's hurting that bad... she doesn't have to do it alone."
Dr. Navarro stands, her expression softening. "I'll come back tomorrow, talk to her if she's ready."
I give her a nod and she leaves, the door clicking shut, and I'm alone with Aurelia, the room silent except for her soft breaths.
I cross to the bed, sinking onto the edge, my hand hovering over her hair, afraid to wake her but needing to feel her, to know she's here with me.
My fingers brush her cheek, she's warm, alive, and I lean down, pressing my lips to her forehead, a vow in every touch.
"I've got you..." I whisper, my voice thick with emotion.
I settle beside her, watching her, guarding her, my mind racing about PTSD, BPD, words that name her pain but don't define her.
She's more than her scars, more than the ghosts of her past, and I'll fight them with her, for her, until she sees it too.
────??────
The bedroom is a cocoon of shadows and whispers, as I lie beside Aurelia, my body curved toward hers.
She's sleeping, her hair spilled across the pillow, her face soft, peaceful in a way that makes my chest ache with a love so fierce it's almost pain.
My eyes trace her, memorizing every detail, the curve of her cheek, the faint freckles dusting her nose, her lips parted just enough to let out soft, steady breaths.
I'm counting her freckles. A quiet ritual to keep the fear at bay. Each one a star in my sky, a reason to fight, to protect, to live for her.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve,thirteen—
I lose track, start again, because she's here, she's mine, and I'll wait forever for her to open her eyes and smile at me.
Her lashes flutter, a small shift. My breath catches, hope and fear colliding. Her eyes open finding mine.
It hits me like a wave, washing away the terror of yesterday. Of her sinking in the pool. Of her pain.
Tears slip down my cheeks, unbidden, raw. Because she's awake. She's here. And the relief is overwhelming. A tide I can't hold back.
I don't cry. Not for death. Not for pain. But for her, I do.
"Luciano?" she murmurs, her voice soft, slurred from the sedative. Concern flickers as she reaches out. Her fingers brush my jaw, catching a tear. "What's going on?"
I swallow, my throat tight. I force a smile. Because she doesn't need my fear. Doesn't need the weight of how close I came to losing her.
"Nothing," I say, my voice rough, thick with emotion I can't hide. "You should rest more, princess. You need it."
Her eyes search mine, like she sees through me, sees the storm inside. But she's too tired to push. Her lids already drooping.
"Okay..." she whispers, her hand falls to my chest, resting over my heart. A touch that grounds me.
She slips back into sleep, her breath evening out and I stay there, my tears drying, my hand hovering over hers, not daring to hold it too tight.
I watch her, counting her freckles again because it's all I can do to keep from breaking.
I settle closer, my body a barrier between her and the world. The rings on our fingers glint in the dawn. A promise we're bound by love. A way to find each other no matter what.