I stopped dead at what I found.
An entire section had been cleared for me. Racks of clothes, all in my size, still with tags attached. Designer labels I recognized from Bianca's closet: Valentino, Versace, Dolce & Gabbana. Brands I could never afford on my gallery salary.
Dresses, pants, blouses, casual wear. Everything perfectly coordinated. Everything screaming wealth.
I opened drawers. Lingerie—silk, lace, nothing practical. All chosen with male appreciation in mind. Bras that pushed up, panties that barely existed, negligees meant for seduction. I felt a little constricted looking at it all but also… intrigued.
A wardrobe fit for a mafia wife. For Bianca.
Not for me.
The efficiency of it unsettled me. How quickly had he arranged this once he realized that I wouldn’t come with the necessary, appropriate accessories? How thoroughly had he provided for every possible need?
It was generosity and control wrapped together with a perfect bow. He was clothing me, yes, but in his choices. His taste. His world.
I grabbed the most casual things I could find: soft black leggings, an oversized cashmere sweater in charcoal gray. Underwear that was more comfortable than seductive—though even those had lace trim.
A small rebellion, but it was something.
The bathroom was another monument to wealth. Marble everywhere—walls, floors, countertops. The rain shower was large enough for three people. Separate soaking tub. Double vanity though only one side showed signs of use.
I took a long shower, trying to wash away yesterday. The church. The reception. The vows I'd never meant to say.
But the ring on my finger was waterproof. The marriage was real.
I found toiletries laid out on the unused vanity—expensive brands, feminine scents. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, moisturizer. Everything I might need.
Again: generous and controlling at once.
I took my time in the bathroom, delaying the inevitable. But I couldn't hide forever.
When I finally emerged, dressed in the casual leggings and sweater I'd chosen, I spotted something I'd overlooked earlier.
My bag. The one from Bianca's apartment.
Someone had placed it on the chair near the closet. I grabbed it, heart pounding as I dug through—wallet, keys, lip gloss.
And my phone.
My hands shook as I plugged it into the charging cable on the nightstand. Thirty seconds felt like hours.
When the screen flickered to life, the breath left my lungs. They’d taken it, but not wiped it.
Anna: 52 missed calls.
Anna: 31 text messages.
I scrolled through with blurring vision:
Saturday 10:47 AM: Still on for coffee at noon?
Saturday 12:30 PM: Where are you?
Saturday 6:45 PM: I went by your apartment. Your neighbor hasn't seen you. CALL ME.
Sunday 11:47 AM: I'm filing a missing person report.
Sunday 2:15 PM: Your landlord let me in. You're not there. I'm getting freaked out, Paola, what’s going on?
