Chapter Forty
Chiara
I stand stunned for what feels like a lifetime, trying to recover from the whiplash he gave me. One minute he was attentive, almost gentle, watching me like I might fracture if he let me go. The next, he’d shut me out with the finality of a slammed door.
I don’t understand what I did or said, but it must be linked to the portrait.
I turn to study it. It looks like any other family portrait in our milieu.
No smile, no display of any emotion. I step closer, studying the boy.
He is standing a bit apart from his parents, as if he was just an accessory while the two main figures are eternally linked with their hands clasped.
The loneliness in the boy’s face makes my heart clench, making me painfully aware of my own loss and loneliness.
I suddenly need to get away from the painting.
I flee into the master suite, into the shower and let the hot water wash away the strain of the day.
It couldn’t wash away the pain or the disillusion, but when I step out and get dressed into comfortable clothes, I am more composed.
I am also ravenous, so I start to go down the stairs toward the kitchen.
My steps are hushed in the empty villa, and I wonder if there is another living soul inside these walls.
As I step through the arched door of the kitchen, though, I stop dead.
There is an elderly woman standing at the stove. She turns when she hears me.
“Oh,” she says, smiling gently. “You must be Mrs. Romano.”
My breath hitches in my throat. The name makes it suddenly all too real.
“I—” My voice catches in my throat. “Chiara is fine. Please.”
She studies me for a moment, gaze friendly, then nods. “Of course, dear. Chiara it is.” She sets aside the spoon in her hand. “I’m Emma.” Her French accent is unmissable. She gestures toward a stool at the counter and reaches for a glass. “Would you like some water? Dinner will be ready shortly.”
I nod and take the seat facing her. Her kindness makes my chest tighten and I fold my hands together to keep them from trembling.
“You’ve come at the right time,” Emma continues conversationally, as she pours the water. “I manage the household,” she explains. “The staff, the schedules, the day-to-day matters.”
She looks at me with kind curiosity. “As Mr. Romano’s wife,” she goes on gently, “you’ll have final say, of course. Some Madame prefer to be very involved. Others don’t.” She sets the glass in front of me and meets my eyes. “How would you like things handled?”
The question sends a wave of panic through me.
Handled. Involved. Final say.
My mother’s voice rises unbidden in my head, sharp and instructive—"Pay attention. Learn how things are run. One day, this will be your duty as a wife.”
This is what I was raised for, what she’s been preparing me for all along.
Calls and courtesies, hosting and hierarchy, rules I’d be expected to learn.
A life of being the perfect wife and hostess.
But all I see are chains. A familiar dread coils in my stomach and my throat constricts, breath coming out too shallow.
“I—” I pause, grounding myself, forcing air into my lungs. “I think things are fine the way they are.”
Emma tilts her head slightly, sending me a curious but friendly look.
“You’ve clearly been running the house very efficiently,” I add quickly. “All of you. I trust the staff to continue exactly as you have.”
It comes out too fast, more like a plea.
For a moment she says nothing. Then her expression softens as if she’d read right through me. “As you wish,” she says simply. “The house will continue as it always has.”
Relief loosens something in my chest, though it’s quickly followed by a keen, uncomfortable awareness—I’ve just declined a role I was supposed to embrace in a life I’m already trapped inside. And it feels liberating, as if a boulder has been lifted off my shoulders.
Emma turns back to the stove, giving me space, and I wrap my fingers around the glass, grounding myself in its cool solidity, heart pounding from my little rebellion against Mother and her legacy.
When she asks if I’d like to eat in the dining room, I shake my head. “Could I… eat here?” I say, my voice small. “You could… sit and eat with me,” I add, unable to hide the hope in my voice.
She stills for a heartbeat, then her face softens. Her hands rest on the counter as she studies me, not with judgment, but with warm curiosity. “You don’t have to be alone, dear,” she says gently. “Sit. I’ll keep you company.”
The words wrap around me like a warm shawl.
For the first time since I arrived back in the city, I feel like I’m in control, not drifting away in whatever direction the waves drag me.
My resolve is slowly seeping back into my bloodstream, chasing the numbness.
No matter what, I’ll be ready to face the tide.
I won’t let myself be ripped from shore to be carried away by the currents again.