Chapter 3 #2
I drove fast, breaking every traffic law, needing speed and physical danger to drown out the emotional pain. I was unable to admit to myself just how hurt I was… heartbreak was something I would never allow myself to feel.
When I drove through the massive gates of Villa Ferraro, the emptiness struck me first. The reception should have been in full swing, the orchestra should have been playing, laughter should have been echoing through the garden…
but the lawn was empty. The catering trucks were parked like hearses near the service area. Alessandra had been efficient.
I brought the car to an abrupt stop at the main entrance and walked through the front door. The house of my childhood felt abandoned. The servants had undoubtedly hidden themselves away, terrified.
The grand entrance hall was dark as I climbed the main staircase; the sound of my heels on the marble was the only noise. My heavy silk dress felt like it weighed a ton, clinging to the clammy sweat that had formed on my back during the drive.
Villa Ferraro’s opulence seemed to mock me.
I was in my old suite, a vast room overlooking the eastern gardens.
The balcony doors were closed. The heavy damask curtains, drawn tight, plunged the room into a dusty twilight that smelled of lilies and failure.
The wedding arrangements—too perfect—had been brought here by a terrified housekeeper.
I was still wearing the dress. The heavy silk, which just hours earlier had seemed like a suit of armor embodying power, had now become a prison.
The fabric clung to my damp skin, suffocating me, as if punishing me for the mistake I refused to admit.
Every layer of lace and meticulous embroidery was a reminder of everything that had crumbled before hundreds of eyes.
The veil—that stupid symbol of purity and victory—slipped down my shoulder, trailing across the floor like a white serpent.
I staggered over to the dressing table. The reflection in the mirror was grotesque: my makeup smudged by the heat, my lipstick smeared, my eyes sunken and empty. My hair, once perfectly pinned up, fell in loose strands, as if even it had given up on keeping up appearances.
For a moment, I stood there, just breathing. The quiet expanded until it filled the room. Then the sound came… a small, involuntary, almost imperceptible sob… and then another.
In seconds, the self-control I’d built up over a lifetime began to crumble. The tears came hot, dense, thick, falling with such force that they actually splattered onto the mahogany of the dressing table. The sound of them hitting the wood was a confession.
My breathing became erratic, and my shaking hands began to spasm. I grabbed the top of the dressing table as if I could hold myself up there, but my strength gave out. My knees hit the marble floor with a dull thud.
The sound echoed through the suite, mingling with the muffled crackle of a stifled sob.
The crying came without warning—ugly, raw, and primitive. There was no elegance, no restraint. It was a sound I would never allow anyone to hear. My chest ached so intensely that I had to press my hands against it, trying to keep my heart from escaping through my throat.
With every breath, the image of the Duomo returned: the doors opening, the aisle filled with faces, the camera flashes, the empty altar… My father’s gaze, the murmur of the crowd… all of it only intensified the metallic taste of shame in my mouth.
Tears streamed down my face, unceasingly. My shoulders shook, I folded in on myself, and my dress gathered around me like a shroud.
I cried until the air hurt, until my throat was raw. I mourned for myself, for my crushed pride, for an empire that seemed to be collapsing around me, and above all, for a baby growing inside me—the tiny life enduring the ruin with me.
It was then that my crying changed—from despair, it turned to rage. The sobs became short gasps, and I forced myself to lift my face. The tears tasted salty and bitter, like iron.
I ran my hands over my face, smearing my smudged makeup, and looked into the mirror again. The woman staring back at me no longer looked defeated; she was about to set the whole world ablaze.
Still kneeling on the floor, I understood: love had died. All that remained was hatred. Then, a soft knock sounded on the oak door.
“Go away,” my voice came out low, in a growl I barely recognized.
The door opened anyway.
Enzo and Matteo entered. There was a hesitation in them that I had never seen before, an acquired gentleness that made me feel sick.
“Bianca…” Enzo began, in a cautious tone, as though approaching a wounded creature. He saw the lilies, saw the dress, saw how still I was. “Sorella mia, we…”
“We’ll take care of this,” Matteo interrupted, already in “fix-it” mode, cell phone in hand and his anger palpable.
“I’ve already alerted our security team in Geneva and New York.
His jet won’t land anywhere without my knowing it.
I’ll destroy his reputation before the sun goes down.
He’ll never do business in this city again. ”