But the wedding? Not real. At least, I hadn't seen it. Maybe my subconscious was torturing me, replaying Igor and Natasha tying the knot over and over.
"Enough," I told myself. "Enough, Elena. Stop thinking about him."
I kicked off the covers, padded barefoot to the bathroom. The mirror showed a wreck: red, puffy eyes, pale face, hair a mess. I splashed cold water on my face, the chill snapping me awake.
"Morning, little Stella," I said to the baby in my belly.
I dried off, threw on clean clothes. Fatigue lingered, but I couldn't stay inbed forever.
I needed to do something. For Stella.
In the tiny kitchen, I poured a glass of water, stood by the window watching Tuscany wake. The sun climbed, painting the sky in gradients of gold and pink. Vineyards glowed green in the morning light, red-tiled roofs edged in gold.
It was beautiful here. So different from New York. Maybe this could really be our home. But I had to provide for us. Marco had helped too much already—renting the place, buying food, taking me to doctor visits, handling everything. I couldn't keep depending on him like this.
I sat at the small table, grabbed paper and a pen.
"Okay," I muttered to myself. "Elena, what can you do?"
No more waitressing, at least not for long. Pregnancy was draining my energy, and once my belly got big, carrying trays would be impossible. No professional skills either—I'd dropped out of college because of money issues.
But I had one thing: artistic talent. I'd loved drawing and crafting since I was a kid. Teachers always said my work had soul, a unique aesthetic.
Jewelry? I scribbled "jewelry design," then "handicrafts."
Low cost—basic materials weren't expensive. If they turned out well, I could sell them at markets or in shops. Tuscany was a tourist spot; visitors loved handmade souvenirs. If my designs were unique and appealing enough, they might sell.
"This could work," I whispered, excitement bubbling up for the first time in ages.
I paced the living room, ideas crystallizing.
Start simple: bracelets, necklaces, earrings. Just silver wire and beads—no need for fancy tools. Make some samples, approach craft stores in town, and see if they'd take them on consignment.
If they sold, I'd have income. Income meant diapers, clothes, toys for Stella. A decent future for her.
A knock at the door.
The clock said seven a.m. I opened it, and Marco stepped in, bag in hand, still looking sleepy.
"Morning," he said, yawning. "Brought fresh bread... your eyes."
I touched them—still swollen.
"It's fine," I said, trying to sound normal. "Just a nightmare."
He set the bag on the table, studied me closely. "About him?"
I nodded, not wanting to elaborate.
His jaw tightened.
"He's not worth your tears," he said, voice low. "Elena, that bastard doesn't deserve anything from you."
"I know." I took a deep breath, changing the subject. "Marco, I've got an idea."
"What idea?"
"Jewelry." I pointed to the paper. "Handmade stuff. Silver wire and beads—simple designs to sell."
