84 | What's wrong?
The morning light spills through the mansion's dining room.
I sit alone at the long table, a half-eaten plate of toast and fruit in front of me, the silence heavy on me.
Luciano's absence is a void, his side of the bed empty when I woke, but he left me a note saying that he would be back in a few hours.
I twist the gold ring on my finger, its wave pattern grounding me, a reminder of him.
Where is he? My mind spins, another meeting? But I push it down, trying to focus on the day, on the healing I'm chasing with Dr. Navarro.
The front door creaks and my heart leaps, knowing it's him before I hear his steps, echoing in the hall.
He appears in the doorway, and my breath catches, his suit's streaked with dirt, clinging to his frame like a second skin, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes shadowed, haunted, like he's seen something that's clawed at his soul.
I stand, my chair scraping, worry flooding me, because this isn't my Luciano, not the man who kisses me like I'm his salvation, who holds me like I'm his world.
"What's wrong?" I ask, my voice sharp, stepping toward him.
He takes a deep breath, his chest rising, and when his eyes meet mine, there's a flicker of warmth, but it's buried under something darker.
"I think I found the person who's hurting you," he says, his voice rough, like it's been scraped raw by the night.
My pulse spikes because those videos, those texts, the accident, they've haunted me.
"And?" I ask, my voice trembling, stepping closer, searching his face for answers. "Where are they? Who are they?"
He shakes his head, his jaw tight, and I see the frustration, the rage.
"I will find them, Aurelia. I swear it," he says, his voice harder now, a vow.
I nod, wanting to push, to demand more but his eyes are distant, guarding something, and I know he's protecting me, shielding me from a truth he's not ready to share.
He changes the subject, his voice softening, though it's strained.
"You don't need to worry," he says, stepping closer, his hand brushing my arm, warm despite the dirt. "You can focus on the Costa Ball, if you want to. Ma told me it's yours to host, if you're up for it."
I blink, the shift jarring, but I know about the ball, his mother called yesterday, her voice warm but insistent, saying it's my place as Mrs. Costa, a chance to shine.
I think of gowns, music, a spring theme blooming in my mind, and a small smile tugs at my lips, because it could be fun, a distraction.
"It will be fun," I say, my voice lighter, trying to match his shift, but my eyes search his, worry creeping back. "But are you okay? You look like you've been through hell, Luciano."
He laughs, a low, ragged sound that doesn't reach his eyes, and shrugs, the dirt on his suit crumbling slightly.
"Nothing a shower won't fix," he says, his voice casual.
He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead like he's pouring his love into it.
He pulls back, his hand lingering on my cheek, and then he's gone, striding out, leaving the scent of earth and him behind.
I stand there, my fingers brushing where his lips touched, and doubt creeps in, a whisper asking what he's not saying, what he's carrying alone.
Is it the videos? The enemy? Something worse?
I shake my head, pushing it down, because I can't dwell, not now, I have therapy soon, another session with Dr. Navarro, where we'll unpack the tests, maybe get answers about PTSD, BPD.
────??────
The therapy room is a quiet haven, its soft gray walls and plush armchair a stark contrast to the chaos in my head.
I sit curled up, my legs tucked beneath me.
Dr. Navarro sits across from me, her hair pulled back like always.
This is oursixth session since landing in New York, and my heart's pounding, because today's the day, the results of the tests we did last week, the ones that poked at my pain, my past, my panic.
Dr. Navarro sets her notepad aside, a small gesture that eases the knot in my chest, and leans forward slightly.
"Aurelia," she says, her eyes meeting mine, "we got the results from the tests we did, the ones looking at PTSD and BPD. Are you ready to talk about what they showed?"
I swallow, my fingers twisting the ring, counting,one, two, three,because it's easier than diving in.
"Yeah," I say, my throat tight. "I want to know."
She smiles and folds her hands in her lap, her posture open, like she's not here to judge but to guide.
"Okay," she says. "The tests confirm you have post-traumatic stress disorder and borderline personality disorder, BPD.
I know those are big terms, and they can feel heavy, but they're not your identity, Aurelia.
They're pieces of what you've been through, and they mean we have a path forward, ways to help you heal. "
I nod, my chest tightening, because hearing it makes it real, like a brand I can't erase.
"What... what does that mean for me?" I ask, my voice shaky, my eyes flicking to hers, searching for something solid. "Like, am I... broken?"
Her expression softens, and she shakes her head, her voice firm but gentle.
"You're not broken," she says, leaning forward, her eyes holding mine.
"You're someone who's been through a lot, your parents' rejection, your sister's betrayal, all that pain, and your mind's been trying to protect you, even if it's in ways that hurt.
PTSD means your brain holds onto trauma, like it's still happening, those moments when the past feels so real, like the videos pulling you back, or when you panic and can't breathe.
BPD means your emotions can hit hard, like waves, making you feel everything intensely, love, fear, anger, abandonment.
It's why you might swing from feeling okay to feeling like the world's ending, or why you harm yourself to cope. "
I bite my lip,because it's like she's reading my soul.
"So it's... fixable?" I ask, my voice small, hopeful but scared.
"Yes," she says, her voice steady, a lifeline.
"It's not about fixing you, you're not a machine.
It's about healing, learning tools to manage the pain so it doesn't control you.
There are different therapies we can try.
For PTSD, something like EMDR, eye movement desensitization and reprocessing, can help your brain process those memories so they don't hit as hard.
For BPD, dialectical behavior therapy, DBT, is really effective.
It teaches skills to handle emotions, to stay grounded, to build healthier relationships, like with Luciano or with yourself. "
I nod, processing, my fingers still on the ring.
"What's DBT like?" I ask, my voice steadier, curiosity cutting through the fear. "Is it... talking, like this?"
She smiles, nodding.
"Partly," she says. "DBT is a mix of talking, like we're doing, but also learning specific skills.
Things like mindfulness, to stay present when your emotions spike, or distress tolerance, to get through tough moments without hurting yourself.
We'd work on regulating emotions, so you don't feel so overwhelmed, and on interpersonal skills, to navigate relationships without fear of losing people you love.
It's structured, but it's tailored to you, and we'd go at your pace. "
I exhale, a shaky breath, because it sounds hard, but there's hope in it, a path I can see, even if it's steep.
"And meds?" I ask, remembering her mention before, my voice cautious. "Would I need them?"
"Maybe," she says, honest but not pushy.
"Medication can help with BPD, especially if the mood swings or anxiety get intense, something like a mood stabilizer or an antidepressant.
For PTSD, it might ease the panic or nightmares.
But it's not mandatory, we'd decide together, and only if you feel ready.
Therapy's the core, Aurelia. You're already doing the hardest part, showing up. "
"It's scary," I admit, my voice raw, meeting her eyes. "Knowing this, having names for it. But... I want to do it. I don't want to keep drowning."
Her eyes brighten and it warms me, a spark in the dark.
"That's incredibly brave," she says, her voice warm. "You're not drowning, you're swimming, Aurelia, even when it feels impossible. BPD and PTSD are challenges, but they don't define you. We'll tackle this together, step by step, and I'll be here, every week, every moment you need."
I nod, feeling relief, because I'm not alone in this, not carrying it in secret anymore or drinking my sorrows away.
"Dr. Navarro," I say, my voice quieter than I mean, my fingers pausing on the ring, "You said there's therapy for both, like EMDR and DBT, but.
.. where do we start? Like, should I do the PTSD stuff first, or the BPD stuff?
I just—" I stop, my throat tight, because it's overwhelming, choosing which piece of my brokenness to tackle when it all feels so tangled.
"That's a great question," she says, her voice gentle. "It's normal to feel unsure when you're facing two diagnoses like this. They can overlap, PTSD's flashbacks and panic can feed BPD's emotional intensity, and BPD's fear of abandonment can make PTSD triggers hit harder."
I stare at her, trying to make everything sense.
She sees the confusion in my face. "Let's unpack it together, okay? Can you tell me what feels most urgent for you right now, what's been the hardest to handle?"
I swallow, my mind flashing to the pool in Sicily, the videos of Ciara, the way my heart raced like it was trying to escape my chest.
"The... the moments when it feels like I'm back there," I say, my voice shaky, my eyes dropping to my hands.
"Like when I saw those videos, it was like I was a kid again, hearing Mom say I'm nothing, or Ciara laughing while I cried.
I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, it was so real, like I was drowning in it.
That's been bad because it happens from time to time. "
She nods, jotting something on her pad, her eyes flicking back to me, attentive.
"That sounds like PTSD at work," she says.
"Those intrusive memories, the panic, the feeling of being pulled back, they're signs.
It's like your brain's stuck on those moments, replaying them to keep you safe, even when they hurt.
What about the BPD side, the emotions, the relationships? How's that been feeling?"
"It's... intense," I admit, my voice cracking.
"Like, with Luciano, I love him so much it scares me, and sometimes I'm terrified he'll leave, or if I think someone's judging me and it's like I'm on fire, burning everything down.
I hate it, because I don't want to hurt him, but it's... it's like I can't stop. "
Her eyes soften, like she sees me, really sees me, and it's a relief, even if it stings.
"That intensity, that fear, it's BPD's hallmark," she says.
"It's your heart trying to protect itself, but it can feel like a storm you can't control.
Both are tough, Aurelia, but here's what I'm thinking, and we can decide together.
PTSD treatment, like EMDR, can help quiet those flashbacks, make the past feel less like it's happening now.
That could give you some breathing room, make the BPD emotions less overwhelming, because you're not fighting two battles at once.
DBT for BPD takes longer, it's about building skills, rewiring how you handle those waves, but it's powerful, and we can start it alongside, maybe focus on one skill at a time. "
"So... PTSD first?" I ask, my voice tentative, testing the idea. "Like, EMDR to stop the drowning feeling, then DBT to... to keep me from burning?"
She smiles, a spark of pride in her eyes that makes my chest warm.
"That's a good way to put it," she says.
"EMDR can be intense because it brings up memories to process them, but we'd go slow, maybe start in a couple of sessions once you're ready.
We can begin DBT now, though, teach you a mindfulness trick today, something to ground you when emotions spike.
That way, we're tackling both, but giving PTSD a bit of priority to ease the triggers. How does that sound?"
I bite my lip, tears pricking, because it's a lot, facing the past, learning to tame my emotions, but it's a plan.
"It sounds... okay," I say, my voice steadier, a small smile tugging at my lips.
"You're already trying so hard," she says, her voice warm. "Let's start with a DBT skill today, something simple, like a breathing exercise. Want to give it a go?"
"Yeah," I say, leaning forward, ready. "Let's do it."