A curated life that looked effortless, untouched by pain, untouched by anything real.
Grid after grid.
Sunlit photos taken on terraces overlooking the sea—golden light spilling across her skin, her smile soft and radiant in a way that felt practiced.
Close-ups of her manicured hands resting gently over the slight curve of her stomach.
Each image framed to emphasize it.
To remind the world—and maybe him—that she was carrying something.
Something important.
Something visible.
Videos followed.
Her laughing in slow motion, hair moving with the breeze, sunlight haloing her like she existed in a completely different world from the one I stood in.
Vincenzo lingered on each one.
His thumb hovered before scrolling.
Paused.
Repeated.
His eyes softened in a way I had never seen before—not once—not even in fleeting moments.
Not for me.
Not ever.
A dull, sharp pain bloomed beneath my ribs.
Deeper than any bruise.
I straightened slowly.
Stepped back.
And returned to my seat without a word.
Turning my face toward the window, I stared out at the gardens, at the fountains, at anything that wasn’t him.
Anything that wouldn’t betray how much that moment had just taken out of me.
When I finally looked back—
He was already watching me.
Still. Steady.
Unreadable.
Like nothing had happened.
As if he hadn’t just reminded me exactly where I stood in his world.
