19. Pietro
— ? —
Pietro
The press release goes out at nine in the morning.
I don’t tell Ariah beforehand. I don’t tell anyone, actually, except for the communications team who prepared the statement and who looked at me with varying degrees of confusion when I explained what I wanted it to say.
This isn’t a gesture. It’s not a grand romantic move designed to win her back.
It’s a correction - something that should have been done from the beginning, something I let slide because it was easier than fighting with my mother.
I read it one more time before I hit send, making sure every word is exactly right.
Grimaldi Holdings is pleased to clarify the creative origins of our recent launch collection.
The foundational concepts - the philosophy of craftsmanship as memory, the approach to jewelry as vessels for life’s meaningful moments - were developed by Ariah Emery-Grimaldi, founder of Maison d’Emery, prior to and during our partnership.
We regret that previous communications did not adequately credit her contributions, and we are committed to ensuring her work receives proper recognition going forward.
It’s dry. It’s corporate. It’s exactly the kind of statement that gets buried in business news and forgotten by afternoon.
But it puts her name back where it belongs, and that’s what matters.
I think about all the interviews over the past six years where Ariah’s contributions were attributed to “the creative team” or “the merger’s synergies.
” And then more recently - since Serena arrived to lead the launch preparations - watching her take credit in press coverage for concepts she had nothing to do with creating.
I think about the way Ariah stopped correcting people, stopped fighting for credit, stopped doing anything except quietly creating beautiful work that someone else would take credit for.
I let that happen. For years, I let that happen.
The send button feels almost anticlimactic when I finally press it.
* * *
My phone rings within the hour. My mother’s number.
“What have you done?”
“Good morning to you too, Mother.”
“Don’t be flippant with me.” Rosaria’s voice vibrates with controlled fury. “That statement is all over the business pages. People are asking questions. They’re talking about how we ‘failed to credit’ the foreign wife, as if she contributed anything meaningful…”
“She contributed everything meaningful.” I keep my voice level, though my hand tightens on the phone. “The entire creative foundation of the launch was her idea. You know that. I know that. The only people who didn’t know it were everyone else, because you made sure her name was never mentioned.”
“I was protecting the family brand…”
“You were erasing my wife.”
Silence on the other end. I’ve rarely spoken to my mother this directly. But this is more specific, more pointed. The creative theft, laid bare. For thirty-six years I’ve deferred, accommodated, told myself that her manipulations came from a place of love and family loyalty.
I’m done.
“This changes nothing,” Rosaria says finally, her voice gone cold. “She still left you. She still took your children. And the family still has legitimate concerns about whether she’s capable of providing a stable environment for the Grimaldi heirs.”
“If you file anything - if you make any move toward custody - I will tell the truth about exactly who’s been destabilizing my marriage for six years.
I was there, Mother. I watched how you treated Ariah.
I heard what you admitted to me when I confronted you after she left - that you never wanted her in this family, that you did everything you could to push her out.
I’ll say all of it publicly if I have to. ”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
I hang up before she can respond.
My hands are shaking slightly - the aftermath of finally, finally standing up to the woman who shaped my entire life. It feels terrifying and liberating in equal measure. I set the phone down on my desk and just breathe for a moment, letting the adrenaline work its way through my system.
That’s when the door to my study opens without a knock.
Serena.
She’s dressed impeccably as always, her dark hair swept back, her expression arranged into something that’s probably meant to look professional but reads as barely contained fury. She has a tablet in her hand, and I can see the press release displayed on its screen.
“We need to talk about this,” she says, holding up the device like evidence in a trial.
“No, we don’t.”
“Pietro.” She steps further into the room, closing the door behind her. “This contradicts everything we’ve been building. The brand narrative, the positioning, the entire creative identity we’ve established…”
“The creative identity that was built on my wife’s work?”
“The creative identity that was built on a team effort.” Her smile is sharp. “A team that I’ve been leading through the launch preparations while your wife was busy playing house.”
“Playing house.” I stand up slowly. “You mean raising our children? Managing a household while her husband disappeared into work? Watching her own designs get credited to someone else?”
“Her designs were refined. Developed. What she brought to the table was raw material, Pietro. I turned it into something marketable.”
“You took credit for work you didn’t do.”
“I took credit for work that needed me to become valuable.” Serena moves closer, and there’s something calculating in her eyes that makes my skin crawl. “Your mother understands that. The family understands that. The only person who seems confused is you.”
“I’m not confused.” I pick up my phone again. “I’m correcting a record that should never have been falsified in the first place.”
“And what about our partnership?” Her voice drops, takes on an edge I haven’t heard before. “What about everything I’ve invested in this family? In this company? In you?”
“There is no ‘in me,’ Serena. There never was.”
“Your mother would disagree.”
“My mother doesn’t get a vote in my marriage.”
Serena laughs - a sharp, brittle sound. “Your marriage is over, Pietro. She left you. She took your children and moved into some sad little apartment and filed for divorce. Whatever fantasy you’re entertaining about winning her back with press releases and public confessions, it’s just that - a fantasy. ”
“Maybe.” I move toward the door, holding it open pointedly. “But it’s my fantasy to pursue. And you don’t get to be part of it.”
She doesn’t move. “You’re making a mistake.”
“I’ve made plenty of mistakes. This isn’t one of them.”
“The credit belongs to the person who made it valuable. That’s how this industry works. That’s how business works. Ariah brought raw ideas - I brought execution, strategy, positioning. Without me, her little sketches would still be gathering dust in some workshop.”
“Without her, you’d have nothing to execute.” I gesture toward the hallway. “We’re done here.”
“We’re not done.” Serena’s composure cracks, just slightly - a flash of something ugly beneath the polished surface. “Your mother and I have invested too much in this family to watch you throw it away for a woman who couldn’t even be bothered to fight for her own place at the table.”
“She shouldn’t have had to fight. That’s the point.” I keep my voice steady even though my pulse is racing. “She was my wife. Her place at the table should have been guaranteed. And instead, I let you and my mother push her out, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to make that right.”
“Even if she never takes you back?”
“Even if she never takes me back. The credit is hers regardless of what happens between us. It was always hers. The statement stands.”
For a long moment, Serena just stares at me. Then something shifts in her expression - the mask settling back into place, but colder now. More dangerous.
“You’re going to regret this,” she says quietly.
“I already regret most of the last six years. What’s one more thing?”
She leaves without another word, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
I sink back into my chair and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
My phone buzzes, a text from Piper.
She saw the statement, Piper writes. She hasn’t said anything yet. But she saw it.
I don’t know what I expected, gratitude, maybe, or relief, or some acknowledgment that I did the right thing. But Ariah doesn’t reach out, and I don’t push. The statement wasn’t about getting a reaction from her. It was about telling the truth.
The rest will have to unfold on its own.
I think about her face in that screenshot - the way her brow furrowed slightly, the set of her mouth. She’s processing. Deciding what to make of it. Whether it changes anything, whether it’s enough, whether it’s too little too late.
It probably is too little too late. But I had to do it anyway.
* * *
That evening, my lawyer calls.
“We’ve received a letter from Donna Rosaria’s attorneys,” she says. “They’re formally requesting a meeting to discuss custody arrangements for the minor children. It’s framed as a ‘family mediation’ proposal, but the language is aggressive.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What does that mean in practical terms?”
“It means they’re laying groundwork. Building a record. Documenting their ‘concerns’ about the children’s welfare so that if they decide to file, they have a paper trail.”
“Can they actually do anything? Take the children?”
“It’s extremely unlikely. The mother is the primary caregiver, she has independent financial resources, there’s no evidence of neglect or instability.”
I think about Luca and Lucy - their small faces, their trust, the way they’ve started to relax around me again during visitation.
Luca’s serious expression when he explains his allergies to me for the hundredth time, making sure I understand which foods are safe and which aren’t.
Lucy’s delighted laugh when I push her on the swings.
The way they both light up now when they see me, like they’re starting to believe I’ll actually show up.
The idea of them being used as pawns in my mother’s games makes something violent twist in my chest.
“What do I do?”
“Keep doing what you’re doing. Support the mother. Document your involvement. Make it clear that you and Ariah are aligned in the children’s best interests - whether you stay married or not. The children’s welfare is what matters, regardless of your relationship status.”
After I hang up, I sit in the darkness of my study and think about the woman who used to fill our house with her presence, her laughter, the sound of her voice singing the twins to sleep.
I think about the way she looked when I first met her - fierce and brilliant and so certain of her place in the world.
I think about the way she looked by the end - diminished, careful, always bracing for the next criticism.
The restoration of her name was the right thing to do.
But it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
This isn’t over. Your family has resources you can’t imagine, and we will use them to protect what matters. The children belong with people who understand their heritage and their obligations. Think carefully about whose side you’re on.
I stare at the message for a long moment. Then I screenshot it and forward it to my lawyer.
Somewhere across the city, my mother and Serena are already planning their next move.
They think they can intimidate Ariah into backing down. They think they can use the children as leverage.
They think the Grimaldi name gives them the right to destroy anyone who gets in their way.
They’re about to learn otherwise.