23. Cassandra #3
I trace lazy patterns on his sternum and listen to his heart decelerate.
For the first time in a year, happiness doesn’t feel like a trap waiting to spring.
It feels like salt air and open windows and a man who asked before he took and kept asking even when I told him to stop negotiating like a lawyer.
For once, I am not bracing for disappointment. The absence of that brace is almost as intimate as anything we just did.
Afterward, we lie tangled in the sheets, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
“That was different,” I say.
“Different how?”
“Gentler, maybe. More… present.” I trace patterns on his skin with my fingertip. “The last time we did this, I think we were both trying to prove something. To ourselves or each other, I don’t know. But tonight didn’t feel like that.”
“No,” he agrees. “Tonight felt like a choice.”
“That’s exactly what it was.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my head, and we lie there in comfortable silence for a while. The breeze through the window carries the smell of the sea, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear music from one of the waterfront restaurants.
“I don’t want this to be just tonight,” Antonio says finally. “I want us to really try. Not just counseling and scheduled visits. I want to be your husband again. Your partner. The person you come home to.”
“I know what you want.”
“And what do you want?”
The question deserves a real answer - not a deflection, not a joke, but the truth.
“I want to trust this,” I say slowly. “I want to believe that what we’re building now is strong enough to hold. I want…” I pause, finding the words. “I want to stop being afraid that loving you will destroy me again.”
“That’s fair.”
“But I also want to try. Really try. Not just for the baby - for us.” I sit up slightly so I can see his face.
“The separation paperwork is still pending. I’ve been telling myself I’m just letting the process run its course, waiting to see what happens.
But the truth is, I don’t want to keep moving toward an ending. ”
His breath catches. “You don’t?”
“Not anymore. Not after everything we’ve done these past months.” I take his hand, lacing my fingers through his. “I’m not saying I’m ready to move back in tomorrow. I’m not saying everything is fixed. But I’m saying… I want to keep building. With you.”
“Cass.” His voice is rough. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure I want to try. The rest we’ll figure out together.”
He pulls me close, and I feel the tension drain out of him - months of uncertainty releasing all at once.
We hold each other in the darkness, and I let myself imagine a future that isn’t defined by damage and repair.
A future where we’re just two people who love each other, doing the daily work of staying close.
***
I wake to morning light and the smell of coffee.
Antonio is already up - I can hear him moving in the kitchen, the familiar sounds of someone making breakfast. I stretch, feeling pleasantly sore, and reach for my phone on the nightstand.
A text from Odette: Have you seen this?
There’s a link attached. I click it, and my stomach drops.
It’s a confirmation. The Fashion Forward Calabria showcase I’d provisionally arranged weeks ago - happening in about four weeks. The kind of small but prestigious event that could make or break an emerging designer’s reputation.
I scroll down, looking for details about my own scheduled presentation.
And there, in the list of featured vendors, is a name that makes my blood run cold.
Special guest appearance: Bianca Fioravanti, presenting her new lifestyle collection.
“Antonio,” I call. “Come here.”
He appears in the doorway, coffee cup in hand, his expression immediately shifting when he sees my face. “What’s wrong?”
I hold up the phone. “She’s coming to Calabria. To the showcase. The same showcase where I’m presenting my collection.”
He takes the phone, reads the announcement, and his jaw tightens. “She registered as a vendor?”
“Apparently. Special guest appearance.” The words taste bitter. “She knows I’ll be there. She knows this is my event, my territory. And she’s inserting herself anyway.”
“She’s trying to rattle you.”
“It’s working.”
Antonio sits on the edge of the bed, setting down his coffee.
“Listen to me. She can register for whatever she wants. She can show up with a hundred lifestyle products and a smile full of teeth. But she can’t take away what you’ve built.
The showcase is about your work, your designs, your talent. She’s just noise.”
“Noise that’s very good at manipulating narratives.”
“Then we’ll be ready for her.” He takes my hand. “Whatever she’s planning, we’ll handle it. Together.”
I want to believe him. I want to focus on the presentation, on the collection, on the opportunity that Elena Romano is giving me.
But Bianca isn’t done with us - that much is clear.
She’s been too quiet these past weeks, licking her wounds after her victim interview failed to turn public opinion against me.
Now she’s making her move.
And I have four weeks to prepare.