6. Cat
— ? —
Cat
The church is packed.
Every pew filled, standing room only along the walls, both families crammed into one building for the first time since our wedding.
The Morettis on the right, the Romanos on the left, and down the center aisle, a fragile strip of neutral ground where the first baby born under the peace is about to be christened.
I’m in the front pew, because that’s where the donna sits. Required position, required attendance, required smile.
The whole room is watching me. I can feel their eyes like heat, phones half-raised, whispers moving through the crowd like weather. Everyone’s waiting for me to crack.
I won’t give them anything.
The baby fusses in her mother’s arms as Father Benedetti begins. She’s beautiful, all dark curls and chubby cheeks, completely unaware that she’s a political symbol wrapped in a christening gown.
Max steps forward to the font, and beside him, Marcella.
The godparents. Paired together like they belong there.
“Who stands as godparents, to guide her in faith and family?”
“I do,” Max says.
“I do,” Marcella echoes, looking at him when she says it.
The whispers surge. I keep my face neutral, my hands folded, my spine straight. The donna does not flinch.
The luncheon is worse.
The reception hall glitters in white and gold. I’m at Max’s left at the head table, technically the position of honor, practically an afterthought.
“You look beautiful,” Teresa Conti says, sliding into the seat beside me. She’s Sofia’s mother, the only person who’s bothered to speak to me directly. “That dress is stunning.”
“Thank you. Your daughter is precious.”
“She is, isn’t she? Though she kept us up until four this morning. I told Gino, if she’s going to scream like that, she should at least have the courtesy to do it during business hours.”
“Babies don’t keep business hours.”
“No, they don’t. Neither do husbands, for that matter.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Speaking of which, how is married life treating you?”
“It has its seasons.”
“That’s diplomatic. Gino and I had seasons too, in the beginning. Mostly winter.” She laughs. “But you push through, yes? For the family.”
“For the family,” I echo.
“I was surprised Marcella volunteered as godmother, honestly. I thought she might still be upset about, well, you know. The engagement that wasn’t.”
“She seems to have moved on.”
“Has she?” Teresa’s eyes flick across the room to where Marcella is laughing with her father. “She’s been nothing but gracious, of course. Very supportive of the marriage. Very… present.”
“Present is one word for it.”
“You’ve noticed that too?” Teresa leans closer. “I told Gino that woman is at every family function, every meeting, every dinner. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was campaigning for something.”
“Maybe she’s just dedicated to the family.”
“Maybe.” Teresa doesn’t sound convinced. “Still, it must be difficult. Being so close to what you wanted and watching someone else have it.”
I follow her gaze. “Yes. I imagine it would be.”
“If everyone could take their seats,” the coordinator announces, “we’ll begin the toasts.”
Sergio Greco rises, champagne glass in hand.
“Friends. Family. Today we celebrate something precious: the first child born under the peace that Don Moretti’s father, God rest his soul, worked so hard to achieve.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“Little Sofia represents everything we hoped for when we signed that treaty. A new generation, untouched by the old hatreds. A future where Morettis and Romanos can stand together.” He pauses, letting his gaze sweep the room.
It lands on me. “Of course, for that future to flourish, we need more than one child. We need heirs.”
He smiles, all teeth.
“So let us raise our glasses to Sofia, and to all the children yet to come. May the don’s own not keep us waiting much longer.”
Laughter rolls through the room. Every eye slides to the front of my dress.
I raise my glass and drink.
“Sergio, that was beautifully said,” someone calls out. “Truly moving.”
“I only speak the truth. The treaty gave us peace. Now we need legacy.” He catches my eye across the room. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Moretti?”
“I agree that legacy takes many forms,” I say, keeping my voice pleasant. “Some people build empires. Some people build families. Some people just build speeches.”
A ripple of surprised laughter. Sergio’s smile tightens.
“Wit,” he says. “How refreshing. Though I’ve always believed actions speak louder than words.”
“Then I look forward to seeing your actions, Sergio. I’m sure they’ll be as memorable as your toast.”
Teresa touches my arm under the table, a warning squeeze. But there’s a spark of admiration in her eyes.
“Don’t let him get to you,” she murmurs. “Everyone knows he likes to stir the pot.”
“I’m fine. I’ve dealt with worse than stirred pots.”
“And now,” the coordinator says, “perhaps Don Moretti would like to say a few words about his own marriage, since we’re celebrating family today?”
Forks pause over plates.
Max stands. He’s directly beside me, close enough to touch, but he might as well be on another planet.
“The alliance between our families has performed as negotiated. Both families have honored their terms. The peace has held for a year, and I expect it to hold for many more.”
He sits down.
That’s it. That’s all he says about our marriage. Not one word about me.
The coordinator stammers something about how wonderful the peace is. Conversations resume, louder now, fueled by the spectacle.
Teresa leans over. “Are you all right?”
“Perfectly fine.”
“That was rather… brief.”
“My husband is a man of few words.”
“Still, you’d think at an event like this-”
“Teresa.” I turn to her with my best donna smile. “Tell me more about Sofia’s nursery. You mentioned you were having trouble choosing colors?”
She takes the redirect gratefully, launching into a detailed description of paint swatches. I nod and respond appropriately while my hands shake under the table.
The luncheon stretches on.
I make conversation, compliment the catering, admire the baby when she’s passed around. I play the role so perfectly that even I almost believe it.
But I’m watching Max.
He’s across the room near the bar, and Marcella is beside him. They’re looking at something on his phone, and as I watch…
He laughs.
A real laugh. The whole-chest laugh that transforms his face. The laugh I haven’t heard directed at me in months.
I’m moving before I decide to move.
“Max.”
He looks up, and for a second he forgets to close his face. Surprise, maybe.
“Cat.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all,” Marcella says sweetly. “We were just looking at photos from the ceremony. The photographer sent a preview. Look, here’s one of you in the pew. You photograph beautifully, Cat.”
“How lovely.”
“This one of Massimo holding Sofia is my favorite, though. He looks so natural with children, don’t you think?”
“He does.”
“I was just telling him he’ll make a wonderful father someday. When the time is right, of course.”
I take Max’s hand, threading my fingers through his. He tenses.
“Could I borrow my husband for a moment, Marcella?”
“Of course. I should go check on the cake anyway. The caterer mentioned something about the fondant not setting properly. You know how these things are.”
“I really don’t.”
Marcella’s smile tightens almost imperceptibly. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Event planning is its own particular skill set.”
“One I’m sure you excel at.”
“I do try. Massimo, we’ll finish looking at those photos later?”
“Sure,” he says.
She glides away, and we’re alone. As alone as anyone can be in a room full of people pretending not to watch.
“What do you need?” Max asks, his voice careful.
“Can we talk? Somewhere private?”
“This isn’t the time,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.
“Then when is the time? Because I’ve been trying to find the time for months, and it never seems to arrive.”
“We can talk tonight.”
“You said that last week. And the week before. And somehow the talk never happens.”
He glances around the room. “People are watching.”
“People are always watching. That’s the life we signed up for.”
“Cat-”
“Tell me what’s going on with you.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “One true sentence, Massimo. That’s all I’m asking. One honest moment, and I’ll stand next to you through anything.”
For a heartbeat, he looks almost pained.
“Cat, I-”
Marcella gasps.
It’s theatrical, perfectly timed, loud enough to carry. She’s stumbled into one of the captains, clutching her wrist, swaying.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says breathlessly. “I don’t know what came over me. I just felt so dizzy-”
Max drops my hand.
He’s across the room before I can blink, catching her elbow.
“Are you all right?”
“I think so.” Marcella leans into him. “I just need to sit down. I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast this morning. So foolish of me.”
“Here, take my seat.”
“You’re too kind, Massimo. I’m sure it’s nothing. I just get these spells sometimes. Probably low blood sugar.”
“Someone get her some water,” Max says. “And something to eat.”
“Oh, please don’t make a fuss. I’m fine, really. Just give me a moment.”
“You’re pale. Sit.”
“If you insist.” She sinks into the chair, all fragile femininity. “I’m so embarrassed. Making a scene at such a lovely event.”
“You didn’t make a scene.”
“You’re sweet to say so. I just, I worry about being a burden. After everything.”
“You’re not a burden.”
I’m standing alone in the middle of the room, my husband’s abandoned hand still tingling.
“Oh no,” someone says behind me.
Red wine cascades down the front of my cream dress.
I look down at the spreading stain, then up at the woman who spilled it. Bianca, one of Marcella’s friends.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasps. “I tripped, I didn’t mean to-”
“The floor is slippery,” someone offers helpfully.
“I feel terrible. Your beautiful dress-”
“It’s ruined,” another voice says. “That will never come out.”
The room has gone silent. Phones are raised.
I dab at the stain once with my napkin. Just once.
Then I hand Bianca my own napkin, smiling.
“Here. You should clean your hands. The wine can stain.”
“I, thank you, I don’t know what to say-”
“There’s nothing to say. Accidents happen.”
“You’re being so gracious about this. If someone had ruined my dress-”
“Anyone can be clumsy.” I smooth my ruined dress, still smiling, and let my voice carry. “Some people just can’t help reaching for what was never set at their place.”
Marcella’s face goes scarlet.
Max is still bent over Marcella, still holding her hand, still not looking at me.
I don’t wait for him to choose.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, still smiling, “I should freshen up.”
I walk out.
No running. No crying. Spine straight, chin up, heels clicking against the marble floor like a metronome.
Behind me, the whispers swell.
I don’t look back.
The bathroom is empty.
I lock the door and stand at the sink, staring at my reflection. The wine stain has spread, turning my cream dress into a crime scene.
He dropped my hand.
That’s the thing I can’t stop seeing. The way his fingers loosened the instant Marcella made her noise. The way he moved toward her without a backward glance.
I was giving him a chance. One honest sentence, and I would have stayed.
And he dropped my hand to catch her.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I find the gap. Tomorrow I stop waiting for a man who’s never going to choose me.
I splash water on my face. Check my makeup one more time.
Then I unlock the door and walk out, past the whispers and the stares and the husband who still hasn’t come looking for me.
I’m done.