5. Adriana
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Adriana
Amelia is already at our usual table when I arrive, her dark hair piled on top of her head in that effortless way she manages. She spots me before I’m halfway across the restaurant and waves, her smile bright and genuine.
“Ana!” She stands to hug me, squeezing tight. “You look amazing. There’s something different about you.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Lighter, maybe? Less like you’re waiting for someone to yell at you.”
I laugh and slide into my seat across from her. “That’s a low bar.”
“It’s an accurate bar.” She flags down a waiter and orders mimosas for both of us without asking. “So. Tell me everything. How’s married life treating you?”
The question would have made me flinch a few months ago. Now it makes me smile.
“It’s good, actually. Better than I expected.”
Amelia raises an eyebrow. “Better how?”
“Rafael is… he’s been kind. Patient. He doesn’t pressure me about anything. We have dinner together most nights now, and he actually talks to me. Listens when I talk back.”
“That’s the baseline for human decency, Ana.”
“I know. But it’s more than I thought I’d get.” I take a sip of the mimosa the waiter sets in front of me. “He told me I was better than Viviana.”
Amelia nearly chokes on her drink. “He said that? Those exact words?”
“He said I was easier to be around. That Viviana was exhausting, always needing attention. That I had talent and she just had her face.”
“Wow.” Amelia sits back, processing this. “Okay. I’ll admit, that’s surprisingly sweet. For Rafael.”
“I know he’s not perfect. I know you don’t like him.”
“I don’t dislike him. I just don’t trust him.” She shrugs. “But if he’s making you happy, that’s what matters.”
Happy. Am I happy? I turn the word over in my mind, testing its weight. I’m not unhappy. I’m not afraid. For the first time in my life, I feel like I might be building something real.
“I think I might be,” I say. “Happy, I mean. Or at least getting there.”
Amelia reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Good. You deserve it.”
She’s the only person who’s ever said that to me and meant it.
Amelia has been my defender since we were fourteen, back when Viviana’s friends used to corner me in the hallways between classes.
They’d make their little comments about my hair, my clothes, the way I never seemed to fit in anywhere.
Most people pretended not to notice. Amelia walked straight into the middle of it and told them exactly what she thought of girls who had nothing better to do than pick on someone who’d never done anything to them.
She got detention for a week. She said it was worth it.
That’s Amelia. Sharp-tongued and fearless and loyal to a fault. The only person from my old life who actually cared about me rather than my family’s name.
The waiter returns with our food, and we settle into the easy rhythm of conversation. Amelia tells me about her job, about the drama with her neighbors, about the man she’s been seeing who can’t seem to commit to anything more than dinner twice a week.
“Speaking of neighbors,” she says, stabbing a piece of fruit with her fork, “guess who bought the penthouse in my building.”
“Who?”
“Enzo Vitale.”
I nearly drop my mimosa. “Enzo lives in your building?”
“The whole top floor. I see him in the elevator sometimes.” She grins. “Not that I’m complaining about the view. The man is unfairly attractive. All dark and brooding, jaw like it was carved out of marble. I swear he could intimidate someone into compliance just by standing there.”
“Amelia.”
“What? I’m just stating facts. And the way he fills out a suit…” She fans herself dramatically.
I think about Enzo at the wedding. The way he called me Ana even after I told him not to. The intensity in his dark eyes when he looked at me, like he could see through every wall I’d built.
“He’s… complicated,” I say.
“Complicated how?”
“I don’t know. He just is.” I shake my head, pushing the thought away. “It doesn’t matter. He got disowned years ago. He’s not really part of the family anymore.”
“His loss is my elevator’s gain.” Amelia winks at me. “Anyway. Enough about intimidating billionaires. Tell me more about this marriage of yours. Are you and Rafael actually, you know…”
She makes a vague gesture that I’m pretty sure is meant to be suggestive.
“No,” I say quickly. “We’re still in separate rooms. We haven’t… we haven’t done that.”
“Seven months and no sex?”
“He’s been patient. He said he knew I’d need time to adjust.”
Amelia studies me for a moment, her expression softening. “And do you think you’re ready now? To adjust?”
This is why I came here. This is the question I’ve been circling around all morning.
“I think I might be,” I admit. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. About making this marriage real. About trying, actually trying, to build something with him.”
“What does a real marriage look like to you?”
I consider the question carefully. “Faithfulness,” I say finally. “Respect. Being partners, not just two people living in the same house. I don’t want what my parents have, all those affairs and pretending everything’s fine in public. I want something honest.”
“And you think Rafael can give you that?”
“I think he wants to. I think he’s been waiting for me to be ready.”
Amelia is quiet for a moment. Then she nods slowly.
“Okay. If this is what you want, I support you. You know that.” She leans forward, her expression serious. “But Ana, promise me something.”
“What?”
“Promise me you’ll be careful. That you won’t lose yourself in trying to make this work. That if it turns out he’s not who you think he is, you’ll walk away.”
“I promise.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment, then smiles. “Good. Now finish your mimosa. You have a husband to seduce.”
I laugh, but my heart is racing. She’s right. This is what I want. This is what I’m going to do.
I’m going to go home and tell Rafael that I’m ready. That I want our marriage to be real. That I want to try.
Today is the day everything changes.
***
The drive home feels different than usual.
I sit in the back of the car watching the city slide past, rehearsing what I’m going to say. Rafael, I’ve been thinking. No, too formal. Rafael, I want to talk about us. Better, but still stiff. Rafael, I think I’m falling for you.
Is that true? Am I falling for him?
I think about the dinners we’ve shared. How he laughs at his own jokes before he finishes telling them, compliments my piano playing like he actually means it, told me I was better than Viviana like it was obvious, like he couldn’t understand why anyone would think otherwise.
Maybe I am falling for him. Maybe I’ve been falling for months and I was just too scared to admit it.
The car turns onto the long driveway, and my heart beats faster. I can do this. I can walk up to my husband and tell him that I want to be his wife in more than just name. I can be brave for once in my life.
The house rises up in front of us, all stone and glass and cold expensive beauty. Rafael’s car is in the drive. He’s home.
I thank the driver and step out onto the gravel. The afternoon sun is warm on my face, and I take a moment to breathe, to steady myself. This is it. This is the moment.
Inside, the foyer is quiet. Cool marble, dark wood, the faint smell of furniture polish. My heels echo as I walk, the sound swallowed by the high ceilings.
“Rafael?”
No answer.
I check the sitting room first. The uncomfortable furniture sits empty, sunlight streaming through the tall windows, the bookshelves lining the walls like soldiers, untouched since I dusted them last week.
The library next. Also empty. The big leather chairs where Rafael sometimes reads are vacant, a half-finished glass of something amber on the side table. He was here recently, then. Maybe still is.
I move through the dining room. The long table where we’ve shared so many meals, where I’ve watched him gesture with his fork and laugh at nothing. Empty chairs, empty place settings, empty silence.
The kitchen. The staff have the afternoon off, so the space is still, gleaming counters and copper pots hanging from their hooks. No Rafael.
The piano room. My room, really, the one place in this house that feels like mine. The grand piano sits in the afternoon light, waiting for me. But Rafael isn’t here either.
He must be in his bedroom.
I head for the stairs, my hand trailing along the banister as I climb. The rehearsed words come back to me, shuffling into different orders. I’ve been thinking about us. I want to try. I think I’m ready.
The words will come. They have to. I’ll see his face and I’ll know what to say.
The hallway to Rafael’s room stretches out in front of me, long and quiet. The carpet muffles my footsteps, swallows the sound of my approach. Afternoon light filters through the windows at the far end, catching dust motes that drift like tiny stars.
As I get closer, I hear something.
His voice, maybe. Low and warm. Laughing about something.
And then another voice. Higher. Feminine. Laughing too.
My steps slow.
That’s strange. Who would he be talking to? The staff are off today. Dante is at work, the way he always is. Cecilia is away somewhere, the way she always is.
Maybe he has a friend over. Maybe it’s someone from one of those parties he goes to, stopping by for a drink.
But the laughter doesn’t sound like friends catching up. It sounds… different. Intimate. The way people laugh when they’re sharing a secret.
I’m imagining things. I must be imagining things.
I reach his door. It’s not quite closed, just slightly ajar, a sliver of the room visible through the gap. I can hear them more clearly now. Rafael’s voice, that familiar warmth, and a woman’s voice over it, high and musical. The rustle of sheets. The creak of the bed.
No.
My hand freezes on the door.
No no no.
I should turn around. I should walk back down this hallway and pretend I didn’t hear anything. I should go to my room and wait until whoever this is leaves and never mention it, never think about it, never let myself know what I already know.
But my body isn’t listening to me anymore.
My hand pushes the door open.
The room comes into focus slowly, like a photograph developing. The four-poster bed. The rumpled sheets, white against white. Two bodies tangled together, skin against skin. His hands on her back. Her hair spilling across his pillow, light brown and straight and perfect.
For a moment, time stops.
I’m not here. This isn’t happening. I’m still in the car, still rehearsing what I’m going to say, still believing that today is the day everything changes.
But I am here. And it is happening. And everything is changing, just not the way I thought.
Rafael’s face when he sees me. The shock, the guilt, the scramble to untangle himself from her. His mouth opening and closing, trying to form words that won’t come.
And her. Turning her head. Meeting my eyes. That smile spreading across her beautiful face, slow and satisfied, like a cat who’s caught something small and helpless.
Green eyes. Light brown hair. Features I’ve known my entire life, features that have always been more beautiful than mine, features that have haunted every mirror I’ve ever looked into.
Viviana.
My sister.
My sister is in bed with my husband.
The room tilts. The floor shifts beneath my feet. I grab the doorframe to keep from falling, my fingers white against the wood.
This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
Rafael told me I was better than her. Rafael said he was glad it was me. Rafael has been kind and patient and he made me believe, he made me believe I was worth something, he made me believe…
“Adriana!” Rafael is off the bed now, stumbling, reaching for clothes that aren’t there. “This isn’t… I can explain…”
The words reach me from very far away. I’m underwater. I’m drowning. I’m standing in this doorway watching my whole life crumble and I can’t move, I can’t breathe, I can’t do anything but stare.
Viviana doesn’t bother to cover herself. She stretches against the pillows, languid, watching me with those green eyes that have always seen too much and cared too little.
She’s been waiting for this moment. I can see it in her face. She wanted me to find them. She wanted me to see.
Rafael is still talking, still explaining, still making sounds that might be words. But I’m not listening to him anymore. I’m looking at my sister, at her satisfied smile, at the sheets twisted around her perfect body in the bed where I was going to give myself to my husband tonight.
I was going to tell him I loved him.
I was going to give him everything.
And he was already here. With her. With the sister who ran away, the sister who left me to take her place, the sister who has taken everything from me my entire life.
Something breaks inside me. Something that was already cracked, already fragile, shatters into pieces too small to ever put back together.
“Explain what?” My voice comes out strange. Flat. Dead. Like it belongs to someone who has already stopped feeling anything at all. “That you just fucked my sister?”