I couldn't remember how the pasta tasted. I just mechanically twirled the noodles, shoved them in my mouth, chewed without flavor, and forced them down. Twirl, chew, swallow. Like some emotionless machine running a program.
Anna watched me eat half the plate, then quietly took the rest away.
She paused at the door.
"I'm sorry." Her voice was soft.
I looked up at Anna. Her face was hard to make out in the dim light, but I saw her lips move, like she wanted to say more. In the end, she said nothing, just turned and left.
I kept sitting there in the dark.
I didn't want to remember, but my mind replayed it frame by frame. Enzo standing at the altar, sliding the ring onto Valentina's finger. Then outside the church, ripping me apart with the nastiest words right in front of everyone.
After that, me facing that humiliation with no way out, dropping to my knees, begging him to spare Liam. But he just looked down at me arrogantly, letting me cry at his feet.
I curled into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked up, chin on my knees. My belly was too big now—this position hurt—but I needed to shrink myself small. As small as possible.
Small enough to vanish from the world.
Enzo showed up the next afternoon.
I heard the front door unlock, then his shoes on the marble floor. Enzo's footsteps were distinct—heavy, steady, rhythmic. If someone had told me before that you could recognize people's steps, I'd have called it bullshit. But now, after all those nights waiting in the dark, I'd learned to pick out his.
He walked into the living room, carrying two bags. One was Tiffany's blue paper bag, the other from some high-end baby brand.
He set them on the coffee table and looked at me.
"Eaten?" He acted like I'd never shown up at his wedding.
"Yeah." My tone was flat as dead water.
Enzo unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat on the sofa across from me. His hair was messy, clothes not as pristine as usual, not like a fashion mag spread. Maybe he'd just rolled out of his new wife's bed.
"For the kid." He jerked his chin at the bags on the table.
I glanced at those expensive, branded paper bags. No reaction.
"And this." Enzo pulled a deep blue velvet box from the Tiffany bag. "For you. A set of the latest diamond jewelry. The store manager swore it's the best style this year."
I didn't even look up, just flipped a page in the pregnancy magazine on my lap.
Enzo wasn't used to groveling like this. His patience ran out fast. He sucked in a deep breath, tossed the priceless jewelry box onto the table, then strode over to my sofa. This arrogant bastard did something rare—he dropped to one knee in front of me.
"You mentioned last Tuesday you didn't like the wall color in the second-floor nursery." His voice softened, a hint of pleading. "I had Drew contact the top Italian designer. We can switch the wallpaper to that warm yellow you wanted. The wooden cribs and toys you picked are all air-shipped from Europe. If it's not right, we can have the designer redo it."
I kept staring at the colorful pics in the magazine, not saying a word.
I heard him sigh. Then he took my hand from my knee, thumb gently rubbing my skin.
"Or we could go out. You've gotta be stir-crazy, baby." He kept coaxing, trying to crack the silence. "You always wanted that French spot in Manhattan. I booked the whole place. Tomorrow night, I'll ditch all the family meetings, just take you for that dessert you love. Stay out as long as you want, whatever makes you happy."
I yanked my hand free, staying ice cold.
How the hell could I pretend this man didn't have a wife? Pretend he hadn't lied to me, threatened me, and nearly hurt my friend?
Then act all happy, like nothing happened, and hit some bullshit French restaurant with him.
Enzo's movement froze mid-air. What little patience he had? Gone. His jaw tightened dangerously.
