7. Laney
LANEY
Massimo's hand rested at the small of my back as we walked into the palazzo's grand hall for Aurelio's birthday. The heat of his palm burned through the thin silk of my dress. I wanted him to keep it there, and hated myself a little for wanting it.
The room was already full. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over polished marble floors, and dozens of guests in evening dress clustered near the bar and the long table laden with food.
I recognized some faces — business associates, family friends, people whose names I could never quite remember no matter how many times Massimo introduced us.
Family members stood in their usual positions like chess pieces.
Enzo by the windows with his phone, already looking bored.
Rosaria holding court near the fireplace, her laugh carrying across the room.
Aurelio seated in the wing-back chair that might as well have been a throne, accepting well-wishes from a line of guests.
Costanza swept toward us the moment we crossed the threshold. She kissed Massimo on both cheeks and gave me the barest nod.
"You're late," she said to him.
"Traffic." Massimo's tone was easy, dismissive.
I pressed my lips together and said nothing. We weren't late. We were exactly on time, but Costanza needed something to criticize and I was done giving her ammunition. My wedding ring felt heavy on my finger, the weight of it suddenly noticeable.
She turned back to the room, raising her voice just enough to carry. "Now that everyone is here, I want to propose a toast to my husband. Aurelio, you have built this family into what it is today. You have given us strength, prosperity, and a name that commands respect."
Glasses lifted around the room. I reached for the flute a server handed me, my fingers clumsy on the stem. The champagne caught the light, golden and expensive and probably wasted on me.
Costanza wasn't finished. "But a family is only as strong as its future.
Sofia is a treasure, of course — a beautiful girl.
But the Lombardos need a son to carry the name forward, to take the reins when the time comes.
I know Aurelio agrees with me. A family like ours requires certain things to survive. "
My throat tightened. The words weren't aimed at me directly. They were said to the room, to the guests, perfectly polite on the surface. But I felt them like a slap. Everyone here knew what she meant. Everyone knew who had failed to provide that son.
Around me, heads nodded. A few people murmured agreement. One of Aurelio's old business partners said something about tradition. Nobody looked at me.
I wanted Massimo to say something. Anything. To tell his mother that Sofia was enough, that our daughter mattered, that ten years of marriage deserved more than being reduced to this — my failure to produce the right kind of child.
He didn't defend me.
"Mamma," Massimo said, his voice still calm, still easy, "let's not turn Papà's birthday into a referendum on the succession. Tonight is about celebrating him, not planning the next generation."
Costanza smiled, thin and satisfied, and raised her glass higher. "Of course, darling. You're absolutely right. To Aurelio."
"To Aurelio," the room echoed.
I lifted my glass with everyone else and took a sip that tasted like ash.
My pulse hammered in my throat, but I kept my face neutral, blank, the expression I'd perfected over a decade of nights like this.
I would not let them see it land. I would not give Costanza the satisfaction of knowing her words hit exactly where she'd aimed them.
Massimo's hand left my back. He moved toward his father, bending to say something near Aurelio's ear, and I stood there alone in the middle of the room like an idiot.
Someone laughed too loudly near the bar. The sound scraped against my nerves. I took another sip of champagne and tried to look like I belonged here, like I wasn't drowning.
"Massimo."
I turned at the voice. Vittoria Greco glided across the room toward us — toward him. She was stunning tonight, as always, in a dress that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Her dark hair was swept up in something elaborate, her jewelry understated and clearly real.
She didn't acknowledge me at all.
Massimo straightened from his father's chair, turning to greet her. "Vittoria."
She reached him and put both hands on his shoulders, leaning up to kiss both his cheeks. The gesture lingered just a fraction too long, her fingers sliding down his arms before she stepped back. Familiar. Easy. Like she'd touched him a thousand times before.
"Happy birthday to your father," she said, her voice warm. "He looks well."
"He's holding on." Massimo smiled at her, that easy charm he wore in public, the one that used to make my stomach flip and now just made me feel cold.
"I'm so glad." She touched his forearm, her hand resting there while she spoke. "You must be relieved. I know how worried you've been."
"It's been a difficult year."
Her thumb moved in a small circle against his sleeve, a gesture so small anyone else might have missed it. I didn't miss it.
I stood three feet away, holding my champagne, and watched my husband let another woman touch him like she had the right.
It's nothing, I told myself. It's just Vittoria. She's like this with everyone. It doesn't mean anything.
Massimo wasn't pulling away. He wasn't stepping back or creating distance or doing any of the things a married man should do when another woman put her hands on him.
He's just being polite. He doesn't want to cause a scene. This is how people are in his world.
Vittoria laughed at something he said, her hand still on his arm, and glanced past him to where I stood. Her eyes met mine for just a second. She smiled.
Then she let go and turned to greet Enzo, who'd appeared beside them, and Massimo moved back toward me.
"Sorry," he said quietly. "Vittoria always wants to talk business."
I nodded. My jaw was tight, my chest full of something hot and sharp that I refused to name.
It was nothing. It was just politeness. You're overreacting.
"I need a minute," I said.
His brow creased. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just — I'll be right back."
I walked away before he could ask anything else, before the tightness in my throat turned into something I couldn't control. My heels clicked on the marble as I made my way to the hallway outside the drawing room, moving on autopilot, needing air and space and a minute to breathe.
The hallway was cooler, quieter. I set my glass down on a side table and pressed my palms against my thighs, trying to get a grip.
God, I hated this. I hated the careful cruelty, the smiles that hid knives, the way everyone in that room knew exactly what Costanza meant and pretended they didn't. I hated watching Vittoria touch my husband and telling myself it didn't matter.
Behind me, footsteps. I turned, hoping it was Massimo, hoping he'd followed me out to ask if I was okay, to tell me he was sorry his mother was awful, to do something that proved he saw what was happening.
It was Enzo. He grinned at me, all teeth and no warmth, and kept walking toward the terrace without a word.
Great.
I stood there for another moment, trying to steady my breathing, and then I heard voices inside the library. Low, muffled by the thick wood, but distinct enough that I recognized them.
Massimo. And Costanza.
I should have walked away. I knew that. But I didn't.
I moved closer, my heels silent on the runner, and the voices sharpened just enough to make out words.
"— what you think I should do?" Massimo's voice, tight with frustration in a way he never let anyone else hear.
Costanza's reply was too quiet. I caught only pieces. Something about responsibility. Something about the family's future.
And then Massimo again, louder, exasperated: "It was never about —"
The rest was lost.
It was never about.
My stomach dropped. Those four words hit me like whiplash, and my brain supplied the rest without permission. It was never about love. It was never about you. It was never about the marriage.
I stood frozen outside that door, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might crack a rib. He was in there with his mother, talking about me — about us — and whatever he was saying, it started with those four words that confirmed every fear I'd been pushing down for months.
The door handle turned.
I stepped back, fast, nearly tripping over my own feet. By the time the door opened I was three steps down the hall, pretending I'd just come from the other direction, my pulse racing and my hands shaking.
Massimo came out first. He saw me and his expression shifted — surprise, maybe concern, I couldn't tell through the roaring in my ears.
"Laney."
"I was just —" I gestured vaguely toward the powder room. "I needed a minute."
He moved toward me, close enough that I caught his scent — expensive cologne and something warmer underneath that used to make me feel safe. His hand came up, brushing my elbow. "You okay?"
No. I wanted to scream it. I wanted to ask him what he'd been saying to Costanza, what it was never about, whether he'd ever loved me at all or if I'd been a fool for ten years.
"I'm fine," I said.
His eyes searched my face. For a second I thought he'd push, thought he'd ask again, thought maybe he'd actually see that I was breaking apart in front of him.
He didn't.
"Good," he said, and his hand dropped. "We should get back. People will notice."
I nodded. My throat was too tight to speak.
Costanza appeared in the doorway behind him, smoothing her skirt. She glanced at me, her expression unreadable, and then walked past us both without a word. The scent of her perfume hung in the air after she'd gone, heavy and floral and suffocating.
Massimo offered me his arm. I took it because refusing would have been worse, would have raised questions I couldn't answer. His forearm was solid under my hand, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
We walked back into the drawing room together.
The party was louder now, voices rising over the clink of glasses and the low hum of a string quartet I hadn't noticed before.
Someone had dimmed the lights. The whole room felt too warm, too bright, too full of people who belonged here in ways I never would.
I kept my face blank. I smiled when someone spoke to me. I nodded at appropriate moments. I stood beside my husband and let him guide me through the room, his hand back at the small of my back, possessive and warm and entirely wrong.
Inside, I was screaming.
It was never about —
The words looped in my head, relentless. Every time Massimo introduced me to someone I didn't know, every time he made small talk about the business or the weather or Aurelio's health, every time he touched me like everything was fine, those four words played underneath it all.
Nobody could see it. I made sure of that. I laughed when I was supposed to laugh. I sipped champagne I didn't taste. I stood in a room full of people who thought I wasn't good enough, and I held myself together because the alternative was unthinkable.
An older woman whose name I'd forgotten asked me about Sofia, and I answered with the right things — yes, she's doing well, yes, she's growing so fast, yes, we're very proud. The woman smiled and patted my hand and moved on, and I felt nothing.
Rosaria caught my eye from across the room and raised her glass in a gesture that might have been solidarity or mockery. I couldn't tell anymore. I raised mine back and took another sip.
The party dragged on. Aurelio made a short speech thanking everyone for coming, his voice carrying across the room despite everything. More toasts were raised. Someone proposed a toast to the next generation, and I felt Massimo's hand tighten on my waist.
Through it all, I held it together. I didn't cry. I didn't run. I didn't confront Costanza or demand answers from Massimo or do any of the things that were clawing at my throat.
I just stood there and survived it.
Finally, finally, Massimo leaned down and murmured near my ear. "Ready to go?"
"Yes."
We said our goodbyes. Massimo kissed his mother's cheek and shook his father's hand. I smiled and thanked Costanza for a lovely evening, the lie smooth on my tongue after years of practice.
Vittoria appeared at the last moment, stepping into Massimo's path. She put her hand on his chest, familiar and easy, and kissed his cheek. "Always a pleasure, Massimo."
He smiled. "Vittoria."
Her gaze slid to me, just for a second, sharp and satisfied. Then she was gone, swept back into the crowd.
Then we were out. The cool night air hit my face as we walked to the car, and I sucked in a breath that felt like the first real one I'd taken all night. My hands hadn't stopped shaking. I curled them into fists and hoped Massimo wouldn't notice.
He opened the passenger door for me. I slid in, pulling my coat tight around my shoulders, and watched him walk around to the driver's side. His movements were easy, relaxed, like the night had been nothing more than a social obligation fulfilled.
He got in, started the engine, and pulled out onto the street. The city slid past the windows — lights and shadows and people living normal lives where wives didn't stand outside closed doors and overhear their husbands saying things that shattered everything.
"That wasn't so bad," Massimo said.
I turned to look at him. His profile was calm, relaxed even, like we'd just survived a mildly tedious obligation and nothing more.
"No," I said quietly. "Not so bad."
He reached over and squeezed my hand. His palm was warm, his grip firm and reassuring in a way that would have comforted me a year ago.
I let him.