17. Solenne
— ? —
Solenne
The Solano estate rises out of the Sicilian hills like something that has always been here, older than the road that leads to it, older than the families who will fill its rooms tonight.
I watch it grow larger through the car window and try to remember how to breathe.
I said yes four days ago. Valentin had sent the invitation with a message that didn’t demand anything, just asked. Would I come. Would I stand beside him. Would I let the people who watched me disappear see me return.
I almost said no. I typed the word twice and deleted it both times. Then I thought about the parking structure, about his hands catching mine and then releasing them, about the way he stopped when I wanted him not to because he needed me to choose him clearly.
I said yes to one evening. I made that clear when I called him, and he didn’t try to turn it into anything more.
We flew out together two days ago and reached Sicily yesterday. I booked a hotel before we left Los Angeles. He booked a separate room there. My return ticket is in my bag, and Rachel expects my notes on Monday.
Summer is safe in Los Angeles with Odette.
I called her while I was getting ready this evening, catching her over breakfast. She told me about the butterfly she saw in Odette’s garden and asked if I would bring her a rock from the beach.
I promised I would. Odette took the phone after and said, simply, “Go. I’ve got her. ”
So here I am. In a hired car with Valentin beside me, wearing a dress I bought in Los Angeles last week. Deep burgundy, simple cut, nothing that needs explaining. I chose it because I liked it. That felt important.
The car pulls into the circular drive. Other vehicles are already parked along the gravel, drivers waiting beside them, and I can see figures moving behind the tall windows of the main house.
Valentin turns to look at me. “We can leave whenever you want. Say the word and we go.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. This isn’t a performance you have to finish.”
“I said I know.” I reach for the door handle, then stop. “Is she here yet?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Good.” I push the door open before he can ask what I mean by that.
The evening air is warm, carrying the scent of jasmine and something else, maybe rosemary, from the gardens that stretch behind the house. Valentin comes around the car and offers his hand. I take it. His fingers close around mine, steady and warm, and we walk together toward the entrance.
Inside, the foyer opens into a reception hall filled with people I half-recognize.
Old families, old money, the same faces that filled the edges of my life when I lived here.
Some of them look up as we enter. I see the flicker of recognition, the quick glances exchanged, the careful rearrangement of expressions.
They’ve seen the footage. They know what actually happened. And now they have to decide what to do with that knowledge while I’m standing in front of them.
A waiter offers us wine. I take a glass because it gives my free hand something to do, then realize I can’t put it down without looking for a table.
“You don’t have to hold on to me,” Valentin says quietly.
I look down at our joined hands. “I know. I’m deciding which one to let go of.”
He takes the glass and sets it on a passing tray. “That one looked less useful.”
I almost smile. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“I won’t.”
We move deeper into the room. Valentin keeps my hand in his, and I’m grateful for the anchor even as part of me wants to pull away and prove I can stand here alone. But that’s not the point tonight. The point is that I don’t have to.
A woman in her sixties approaches, someone I remember from the charity luncheon in December. She smiles warmly and takes both my hands.
“Solenne. It’s so good to see you. I heard about the project you’re working on in Los Angeles. How exciting.”
“Thank you. It’s still early days, but we’re making progress.”
“You must tell me about it sometime. I’m always interested in what the young creative people are doing.”
She moves on. Valentin watches her go.
“She was at the luncheon,” I say. “The one where I was pushed out of the photograph.”
His attention returns to me. “I remember you telling me.”
“She didn’t say anything then.”
“No.” He doesn’t offer an excuse for her. “She didn’t.”
We circulate through the room. Some people greet us normally, asking about Summer, making small talk about the weather or the wine or the state of the roads.
Others are more cautious, offering polite smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes, finding excuses to drift away before the conversation gets too specific.
I notice who steps closer and who steps back. I notice who meets my eyes and who looks past me. I’m cataloging it all without meaning to, the way you catalog threats when you’ve learned to expect them.
After an hour, the room is starting to feel smaller. The wine is good but I’ve barely touched it, too aware of needing to stay sharp. Signor Solano stops beside us to introduce an arriving couple. I have heard three versions of how pleasant the weather is, and I can’t manage a fourth.
I catch his eye and gesture toward the terrace doors. “I’ll join you,” he says. The terrace doors are only a few steps away.
The terrace is quieter, a long stone balcony overlooking the gardens. A few people stand in clusters near the railing, their voices carrying in the evening air. I stop beside a stone planter just beyond the open doors, where I can feel the air without having to make conversation.
The sun is setting behind the hills, painting everything gold and amber.
For a moment I want to take a photograph for Summer.
She’d ask whether the gardens have somewhere to run, whether we can see the sea from here.
I take out my phone, then put it away. I don’t want to spend tonight measuring every beautiful thing against what happened here.
“I thought you might come out here.”
The voice comes from behind me. I know it before I turn around.
Ginevra is standing a few feet away, a glass in her hand, her expression carefully composed.
She’s wearing something pale and elegant, the kind of dress that suggests fragility without actually being fragile.
Her hair is perfect. Her makeup is perfect.
Everything about her is calculated to look effortless.
“Ginevra.”
“Solenne,” she says my name like it tastes bad. “I didn’t expect you to show your face here.”
“Why not? I was invited.”
“After everything you’ve done? The footage, the accusations, dragging private family matters into the press?” She shakes her head slowly. “I thought you had more dignity than that.”
I turn to face her fully. “What part of pushing Delfina into a doorframe was dignified?”
Her expression flickers, just for a second, before the mask slides back into place. “That footage doesn’t show the whole story. You know that. I was defending myself.”
“From what? A woman who told you to stop accusing a maid of stealing?”
“You don’t understand how things work here. You never did.” She steps closer, lowering her voice. “I was offering a real partnership. A real place in this family. You were never going to fit. Everyone could see it except Valentin.”
“A partnership.” I let the word sit between us. “Is that what you call trying to replace me while I was still in the house?”
“I call it being practical. He needed someone who understood this life, these people. Someone who wouldn’t embarrass him at every turn.”
“Someone his mother approved of, you mean.”
“Costanza saw what I saw. That you were wrong for him. Wrong for this family.” Ginevra’s voice drops even lower, almost intimate. “He’ll get bored of you eventually. He always does, with things that require too much effort. And when he does, I’ll still be here.”
“No, you won’t.”
The voice comes from behind us. I turn to find Valentin standing at the edge of the terrace, his face absolutely still.
Ginevra’s composure cracks, just slightly. “Valentin. I was just…”
“I heard you.” He stops in the doorway. The nearest couple look up at the change in his voice.
“We were having a private conversation.”
“In which you told my wife that I’ll get bored of her and you’ll be waiting.” He stops beside me, close enough that I can feel the tension radiating off him. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Valentin, please. You’re making a scene.”
“Good.” His voice is calm but it carries, loud enough that the people near the terrace doors have stopped pretending not to listen. “I’ve spent too long not making scenes. Not saying clearly what should have been obvious.”
He holds out his hand beside mine. I put my fingers into his.
“Ginevra was never a romantic prospect,” he says, addressing the terrace, the doorway, anyone within earshot.
“My mother pushed her forward at every opportunity, and I let you all mistake my silence for agreement. That was my failure.” He looks at me, then back at the small crowd that has gathered.
“Solenne is the woman I chose. The woman I married. The mother of my daughter. Anyone who comes between us, anyone who tries to erase her from this family again, will end where Ginevra stands now.”
The silence stretches. I can feel the weight of it, all those eyes watching, all those calculations being recalculated.
Ginevra’s face has gone pale. “You can’t just…”
“I can.” Valentin turns to her directly. “You won’t have a place in my life. Not now. Not later. You can stay at this party if your father wants you here, but don’t speak to my wife again.”
For a moment I think she might argue. I can see her weighing it, trying to find an angle that will let her save face. Then something shifts in her expression, and she sets down her glass on the stone railing with a small, precise click.
“Enjoy your evening,” she says, and walks away.