8. Chiara #3
“You’ve been trying to destroy me since the day you arrived.” She takes a step toward me, and I hold my ground. “You couldn’t stand that Lorenzo had someone in his life who actually understands him, someone who’s been here through everything while you were off playing with plants in France.”
“I’ve been trying to do the job Lorenzo gave me.
” I think of the meeting where he backed my presentation while she sat beside him, smiling through it.
“You’re the one who’s been undermining me at every turn.
The whispers to the staff, the questions about my qualifications, the convenient tears whenever Lorenzo might start to see what you’re doing. ”
“What I’m doing?” Livia laughs, a sharp, ugly sound that echoes off the stone walls. “I’m protecting the family that took me in. You’re just the woman his parents picked out of a catalog to continue the bloodline.”
The words hit harder than they should. I’ve known from the beginning that our marriage was arranged, that Lorenzo didn’t choose me so much as accept me, that the alliance between our families mattered more than whether we actually suited each other.
But hearing it said out loud, spoken with such contempt, makes something cold settle in my stomach.
“He married you because it was arranged before either of you had a say.” She says it with the certainty of someone who has rehearsed the words while watching us together. “You were the promise his family made, not the woman he’d have chosen. You were never the point. The alliance was.”
I remember Lorenzo reaching for me on the boat, the strawberries he remembered when I thought he wasn’t listening. Those moments were ours. I won’t offer them to her for inspection, and I won’t let her tell me they meant nothing.
“And yet you need me gone.” I hold her gaze. “If you were so certain he wanted you, you wouldn’t have to work this hard to make him hate me.”
Livia goes white. For a moment I think she might actually hit me, her hands clenching at her sides, her whole body vibrating with barely contained fury.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She steps away from the rack, abandoning even the pretense of work. “You have no idea what we’ve been through together, what I’ve done for this family, what I’ve sacrificed.”
“Then explain the purchase.” I make myself return to the question before she turns this into a fight about who has suffered more. “You had access to the bottles. Someone used that access to destroy the launch, and you were very quick to point everyone toward me. I’m taking what I found to Lorenzo.”
Something shifts in her expression, the fury giving way to something more calculating. “He won’t believe you. He never believes you over me. That’s what you still don’t understand.”
“Maybe.” I turn toward the cellar entrance, done with this conversation. “But at least now I know exactly what you are.”
I’m almost to the stairs when her voice stops me.
“You think you’ve won something.” Livia hasn’t moved from her spot by the wine rack.
“You think your little investigation matters. But Lorenzo has known me his whole life. He protected me when we were children, he protected me when his father died, and he’ll protect me now.
Because that’s what he does. That’s who he is. ”
“We’ll see.” I keep walking, angry with myself for wanting to look back and check whether she sounds more certain than she looks.
After leaving the cellar, I ask the driver to take me into the village again.
The general store still hasn’t confirmed the house’s next delivery, and I want an answer from the owner before he closes. My folder is upstairs in my room. It will be there when I return; this errand is something I can finish without Lorenzo.
The driver parks outside the shop and waits by the car, close enough to see me through the window. Rosalia is back at work in the house. I miss having her beside me as I take a basket from the stack by the door.
The store is half-empty, which should make my errand quick and painless. I’m reaching for a jar of honey when I hear voices behind me.
“There she is.” A woman near the counter turns to her companions with her hand cupped beside her mouth, doing very little to hide her voice. “The French woman. I heard she’s been asking questions all over the valley, trying to blame everyone except herself.”
I don’t turn around. I focus on the honey jar, on the way the light catches the amber liquid inside, on anything except the women discussing me like I can’t hear every word.
“My cousin works at the estate.” The woman beside her moves around a display, bringing me into her line of sight. “She says the staff are afraid to talk to her. She walks around like she owns the place, demanding records, treating everyone like suspects.”
“Well, someone has to be responsible.” The first woman looks toward the owner as though expecting him to agree. “And it certainly wasn’t our Livia. That girl has given her whole life to the Marchettis.”
I turn with the honey jar still in my hand. There are three of them, middle-aged women with the comfortable look of people who have never had to defend themselves against rumors they didn’t start. They freeze when they realize I’m looking directly at them.
“My name is Chiara Delacroix-Marchetti.” I set the jar in my basket instead of retreating toward the door. The shopkeeper lowers his newspaper. “If you want to accuse me, you can use it to my face.”