The words sound hollow. How do I explain weeks and weeks of deception? How do I make him understand that every moment we shared was real, even if the name I gave him wasn't? I imagine his face when I tell him. I try to picture the moment of recognition, the shock, the anger. I prepare myself for the worst while hoping desperately for something better.
Maybe he'll be angry at first. That's natural. Expected. But then he'll understand. He'll see that I did this because I love him, because I've loved him for years, because being Valentina was the only way I could have him.
And then I'll tell him about the baby.
That will change everything. It has to. We're not just two people anymore—we're going to be a family. That will matter to him… he’ll see that despite how this all started, this is a solution. There’s no explanation for the way I’ve been feeling him unravel night after night except for the fact that my upcoming wedding is destroying him as much as it is me.
I take a breath and stare into the mirror, and try again.
I practice different versions throughout the week. In the shower, while getting dressed, during the endless wedding appointments that fill my days. I rehearse the words until they feel smooth and natural, until I can say them without my voice shaking.
"I'm pregnant with your baby. And I know this is a shock, but I need you to understand—I love you. I've always loved you. And we can make this work. We have to make this work."
Sometimes, in my imagination, he pulls me into his arms immediately. He tells me he loves me too, that he's always known somehow that Valentina and Giulia were the same woman and that he clung to the necessity of the deception too, that we'll figure this out together. Sometimes he's angry, but eventually comes around. Sometimes he needs time, but promises to come back.
I never let myself imagine the version where he walks away. I never let myself think about the scenario where he looks at me with disgust and betrayal and tells me he never wants to see me again. That version is too terrifying to contemplate.
So I focus on the others. The ones where love wins, where the truth, however painful, brings us closer instead of tearing usapart. I tell myself that's what will happen. I have to believe it, because the alternative is unthinkable.
The night that we’re supposed to meet at the club, I can barely think straight, barely eat dinner, or focus on the conversation happening around me. My father is discussing security arrangements for the wedding. Luca is at dinner too, and I can feel his eyes on me as I stare at my plate. I wonder if he can tell, if he can see the anxiety radiating from me, the way my hands tremble slightly when I reach for my water glass. If he can feel that in a few hours, I'm going to shatter both our worlds.
The club is busy tonight when I get there, the music loud and pulsing, bodies moving on the dance floor in various states of undress. I make my way through the crowd to our private room, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. Luca is at the bar as always, a glass of something between his palms. I feel my breath catch in my throat.
In a few minutes, I'll tell him everything. Who am I? Why I lied. That I'm carrying his child. And then—I don't know what happens then.
I have to believe it will be okay, that the connection between us is strong enough to survive this.
He turns and sees me, and I know immediately that something is wrong as he gets up and walks toward me. His shoulders are tense, and there’s a tightness around his eyes, like he's carrying the weight of something heavy and terrible.
"Hey," I say when he reaches me. My voice sounds strange to my own ears—too high, too nervous.
"Hey." He looks at me, but doesn’t move to take us upstairs or do anything at all yet. He just stands there, his hands in his pockets and his expression distant.
The anxiety that's been building all day intensifies into something close to panic. This isn't how I imagined this conversation starting. He's supposed to be warm, affectionate,present, needy for me like he always is. Not this closed-off stranger who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, taking a step toward him.
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration I've seen before. "Something came up at work. Family business. It's—complicated."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I can't." The words are flat. "It's not something I can discuss."
The distance between us feels like a chasm. I want to cross it, to touch him and remind him of the connection we share. But something holds me back. Some instinct that tells me he's not ready for that right now.
"Luca—"
"I might not be able to meet as regularly for a while," he says, cutting me off. "The next few weeks are going to be intense. There's a lot happening, and I need to focus."
The panic explodes into full-blown terror. He's pulling away. Right when I need him most, right when I'm about to tell him everything, he's pulling away.
"How long?" The question comes out strangled.
"I don't know. A few weeks, maybe. Until after—" He stops himself and shakes his head. "I just need some time to handle things."
A few weeks. If he disappears now, if I can't see him, can't tell him?—
"I need to tell you something." The words burst out of me desperately. "Something important."
