“Bellissima,” I murmur.
She lifts a brow. “Not very modest of you, praising your own work.”
“You know perfectly well I’m not talking about the canvas.”
“Well,” she says lightly, “the painting is beautiful too.”
“Nothing compares to you.”
She smiles. “Smooth talker.”
I grin. “Tell me about Aurélie’s visit.”
“She didn’t stay long. We talked about a few things, work, my trip, your family. But she had coffee with me and tried the biscotti al limone I made. Alicia asks for them all the time now.”
“Does she?”
Cecilia smiles, her voice gentle. “Baking them makes me feel like I’m back in Nonna’s kitchen again.”
If only she knew how much it means to me to hear her say that word so naturally.Nonna.
“Your sister wasn’t the only one who stopped by this week. Colin was here yesterday, while Alicia was at her friend’s house.”
My breath catches, and I can’t even speak.
“Alexander?”
“Sì.”
“Nothing has changed,” she continues. “What I told you on the plane… nothing has changed. He’s just the father of my children.”
I nod once. “Do you want to tell me about his visit?”
“Yes. But I’ll make it quick. I know you have to log off soon and start your day.”
So she gives me the outline of their conversation.
It does nothing to improve my opinion of him. If anything, the opposite. But at least, from what she tells me, he is finally owning the wreckage he caused.
I watch her face as she speaks. I look for hurt. For that hollow look I’ve seen there before. I don’t find it. Sometimes there’s a trace of exasperation. A flash of fatigue… But no open wound.
When she finishes, she exhales.
“That’s basically it,” she says. “I can tell you everything in more detail another time, if you want.”
“How did it make you feel?” I ask. “Hearing all of that from him.”
“Honestly? If this had happened a while ago, it would have devastated me. I would have cried for days and replayed every single word in my head.” She glances to the side, then back to the screen. “But even though I’ve moved on, it helped to close a few loose ends. And part of me felt relieved to hear him say, out loud, that he didn’t cheat on me because I was lacking, or not enough.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’ve spent a lot of time on that in therapy. And I know, even if it hurts, that the blame doesn’t belong to the person who’s betrayed... only to the one who makes the choice to betray.”
She stops for a second, her eyes going distant for a moment.
“But in practice... when the insecurities resurface, it feels very different.”
I skip the praise and the rush to list all the reasons she’s everything to me. She already knows I adore her, and how deeply I’m drawn to her mind and her heart. All of her. So I choose what matters more than words. I just listen.
