So why on earth did she feel like she couldn’t catch her breath?
Chapter 2
Rosália
The Lumen Contemporary Art Gallery smelled faintly of ozone, oxidized metal, and the sharp, lingering tang of espresso. To Rosália, it was the scent of purpose.
The gallery was a sanctuary of light and negative space, a massive, cavernous room where she was entirely in control. As the director, she didn’t just hang paintings on a wall; she curated experiences. By two o’clock in the afternoon, her heels were clicking a steady, authoritative rhythm against the polished concrete floors as she walked the perimeter of the new exhibition.
She loved the texture of this life. She loved running her fingers over the rough grain of raw canvas, studying the chaotic brushstrokes of an emerging painter, and translating that raw, bleeding emotion into something the public could digest. Here, she wasn’t just David’s beautiful, accommodating wife. She was a force.
Today’s crisis had arrived in the form of Elias, a notoriously temperamental sculptor whose retrospective was set to open by the weekend. Elias was currently pacing in front of his centerpiece—a massive, twisted structure of oxidized copper—running his hands through his hair and threatening to pull theentire collection because the track lighting was “insulting the soul of the metal.”
Rosália didn’t panic. She thrived in the eye of the storm.
“Elias,” she said, her voice a soothing, steady hum that immediately commanded the room. She stepped up beside him, crossing her arms as she mirrored his intense gaze up at the sculpture. “You’re right. The harsh white light flattens the oxidation. It completely erases the depth you spent months developing.”
Elias stopped pacing, his chest heaving as he looked at her with wide, defensive eyes. “Exactly! It looks manufactured. It looks like a cheap imitation of my own work.”
“It does,” Rosália agreed smoothly. She didn’t placate him; she validated him. She gestured to the technician hovering nervously on a ladder nearby. “Drop the temperature to three thousand kelvin. Give me a softer, warmer amber wash, and angle the secondary beam to cast a shadow directly behind the arch.”
The technician adjusted the gels and shifted the heavy metal fixtures. A second later, the harsh, sterile glare vanished. In its place, a rich, golden light spilled over the copper, catching the intricate grooves and making the metal look as though it were glowing from the inside out. The shadows deepened behind it, giving the piece a profound, imposing weight.
Elias let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob, his shoulders instantly dropping. “That’s it. That’s exactly how it looked in my studio.”
“Your work is about raw, unfiltered survival, Elias,” Rosália said gently, turning to offer him a reassuring smile. “Iwould never let a gallery’s lighting strip that away from you. It’s perfect.”
By the time she locked the heavy glass doors of the gallery at seven o’clock, she was physically exhausted but practically humming with the lingering high of a job well done. The evening air was crisp, carrying the distant, muted roar of downtown traffic. Riding the wave of her good mood, she made a spontaneous detour on her drive home, pulling her SUV up to a small, vibrant Italian grocer.
Tonight, she decided, they were going to have a real dinner. Not takeout eaten out of cardboard boxes. Not a rushed, silent salad over the sink while David scrolled through legal briefs.
She walked through the narrow aisles of the market, letting the sensory richness of the place wash over her. She bought fresh, flour-dusted tagliatelle that felt heavy and soft in her hands, a wedge of aged parmesan that smelled sharp and nutty, and thick, marbled cuts of pancetta. She was going to make a rich, slow-simmered carbonara, pour a heavy glass of red wine, and force David to sit down, look her in the eyes, and talk to her. She wanted to remember what his laugh sounded like when he wasn’t stressed.
When she finally pulled into her sweeping driveway, the house was dark, save for the sleek exterior security lights. David’s car wasn’t in the garage yet.
Undeterred, Rosália balanced the heavy paper grocery bag on her hip, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside. The heavy oak door shut behind her with a definitive, echoing thud. Instantly, the vibrancy of the city and the market was stripped away, replaced by the stifling, immaculate silence of her own home. The air felt perfectly climate-controlled and utterly stagnant.
She dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl on the console table and walked straight to the kitchen. She needed to fill the space. She walked over to the vintage record player in the corner of the open-concept living room, slipped a vinyl from its sleeve, and carefully dropped the needle.
The soft crackle of static filled the room, followed a second later by the haunting, cinematic melancholy of Lana Del Rey. The sultry, echoing vocals bled into the pristine, empty rooms, wrapping around Rosália like a heavy velvet blanket as she began to cook.
For forty-five minutes, she lost herself in the tactile rhythm of the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of dark, full-bodied Montepulciano, taking a slow sip as she minced garlic. The knife knocked a steady, comforting rhythm against the wooden cutting board. Soon, the kitchen was filled with the intoxicating, savory aroma of rendering pancetta sizzling in the hot iron skillet. Steam rose from the boiling water, fogging the windows against the dark night outside.
She tossed the fresh pasta in the rich, glossy sauce, plating it beautifully in two wide, shallow ceramic bowls. She garnished them with coarse black pepper and a heavy dusting of cheese, stepping back to admire her work. The kitchen felt warm. It smelled like a home.
Just as she reached for two linen napkins, her phone screen lit up on the marble island, buzzing violently against the stone.
David:Stuck at the firm. The Vanguard merger is an absolute mess. Going to be a late one. Don’t wait up for me, Rose. So sorry.
Rosália stared at the glaring white light of the screen. The words blurred for a fraction of a second.
The warmth drained out of her chest, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. The smell of the garlic and pancetta suddenly felt entirely too heavy, nauseatingly rich. Slowly, with fingers that felt slightly numb, she picked up her phone and typed back a simple:Okay. Good luck. I love you.
She set the phone face down.
The silence of the house pressed in on her, suddenly louder than the music still spinning in the background. With a heavy, trembling sigh, she pulled out one of the velvet barstools and sat down at the island.
She picked up her silver fork and twirled the pasta, staring blankly at the perfect, glossy noodles. Her appetite had completely vanished. The house was so big. It was so flawlessly decorated, every throw pillow and vase perfectly positioned, yet there wasn’t a single sign of life.
