I don't want to talk to him. Don't want to explain what's happening inside me. Don't want to do anything except get through this dinner and go home where I can drop this exhausting pretense.
The conversation moves on around me. Business talk between the fathers, wedding talk between the mothers, gossip among the various aunts and uncles. I participate minimally, offering just enough responses to be polite but not enough to draw attention to myself.
Just enough to not stand out. Just enough to fade into the background where I apparently belong.
When dinner finally ends after what feels like hours, I stand immediately, ready to escape.
"I should go," I announce. "I have an early morning tomorrow."
"Doing what?" Santino asks.
"Things." I deliberately don't elaborate, don't give him anything to work with. "Gia, are you ready to leave?"
She nods, standing quickly and reading the desperation in my voice. "Yes."
I kiss Mama's cheek dutifully, then Giovanna's, playing the role of the good daughter. "Thank you for a lovely dinner."
"Liana, wait—" Santino stands suddenly too.
I'm already moving toward the exit with determined strides, Gia beside me matching my pace. We make it to the car before he can follow us out of the private room.
"Drive," I tell Gia as soon as we're both inside with the doors closed.
She doesn't argue, just starts the engine and pulls away from the restaurant.
In the car, neither of us speaks for a long while. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the sound of traffic and the hum of the engine.
Finally, Gia breaks the silence. "What are you going to do?"
"What can I do?" I stare out the window at the city passing by, lights blurring together. "I'm marrying him. That's what's happening, whether I want it or not."
"You could tell him the truth about everything."
"The truth about what? That I've been sabotaging our relationship from the very start? That every single chaotic thing I've done was carefully calculated to drive him away?" I shake my head, the bitterness seeping into my voice. "I'm sure that would go over wonderfully."
"You're just giving up completely?"
"I'm accepting reality," I correct her. "Sometimes that's all you can do when you've run out of options."
"That's not the sister I know. The sister I know fights for what she wants."
"I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of trying to be something I'm not, tired of pretending I'm okay with losing everything I've worked for." I close my eyes against the burning sensation. "I'm just... tired."
We pull up to the house, the familiar façade offering no comfort. I get out without another word. Inside, I go straight to my room and lie down on my bed without even bothering to change out of my dress. The fabric wrinkles beneath me, but I can't bring myself to care.
My phone is on my nightstand, the screen dark and silent.
No texts from Santino. No calls. No demands for explanation.
Maybe he's finally giving me the space I supposedly wanted, the distance I've been creating.
So why does it feel so wrong? Why does the silence hurt more than the chaos ever did?
I roll over and stare at the ceiling, counting the shadows cast by the moonlight filtering through my curtains.
Three more weeks until the wedding.
I can survive three more weeks of pretending to be something I'm not, even though I'm increasingly unsure of who I actually am anymore. Even if the thought of marrying Santino Marcello makes my chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with losing my birthright and everything to do with the way he looked at me across the dinner table tonight.
