Chapter 4

The silence that descended upon the table was thick and unbreathable, tasting of stale cigar smoke.

Franco's hand was a fixture on Camilla's waist. His thumb brushed the thin fabric of her uniform in a rhythmic, familiar motion. It was an intimacy of muscle, thoughtless and damning. He didn't even realize he was doing it.

I stood up. The legs of my chair scraped against the floor, a raw, grating sound.

"Gia?" Franco looked up, blinking as if waking from a trance. He pulled his hand away from Camilla, but the damage was done.

"I'm going to the restroom," I said. My voice was low and devoid of inflection.

I walked away without waiting for a response. My heels struck the polished floor in a hard, deliberate rhythm.

I pushed into the ladies' room. It was empty. I gripped the cold porcelain edge of the sink, staring at my own face in the mirror. Do not cry. Do not give him the satisfaction.

The door opened.

Camilla walked in. She wasn't crying anymore. The "faintness" was gone, and she moved with a loose, disjointed rhythm, taking up more space than she needed. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it, crossing her arms.

"Oops," she said, a smirk playing on her lips. "Did I ruin your date night?"

I turned to face her without haste. "You're playing a dangerous game, Camilla. You are a mouse in a house of cats."

"And you're a blind fool," she countered, her voice laced with a particular sort of poison. "He doesn't want you. He wants your last name. He tells me everything. How you're cold in bed. How he has to think of me to finish."

The words hit me like a physical blow, but I held myself rigid, determined she would not see the wound.

"If he wanted you," I said softly, "you wouldn't be serving drinks while I wear his ring."

Her face twisted in rage. "That ring is a copy! I have the real one!"

"I know," I said.

A flicker of disbelief crossed her face.

Before she could speak, the handle of the door jiggled. Then a heavy knock rattled the frame.

"Gia?" It was Franco.

Camilla's eyes flashed. She let out a thin, calculated scream.

"Get away from me!" she cried, throwing herself onto the tiled floor with a heavy thud. She came down hard on her own ankle, twisting it awkwardly beneath her.

Franco kicked the door open. The lock splintered and the door swung inward.

He rushed in, eyes wild. He saw me standing by the sink, arms at my sides, impassive. He saw Camilla on the floor, sobbing, clutching her leg.

"She pushed me!" Camilla cried, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She cornered me and pushed me!"

Franco looked at me. There was no question in his eyes. Only judgment.

"What is wrong with you?" he demanded.

"Franco, look at her," I said calmly. "She's acting."

"She's hurt!" He knelt beside Camilla, examining her ankle. It was red, and already beginning to swell. "You think because you're a Vitiello you can just abuse people? You think you're untouchable?"

He looked up at me with pure disgust.

"You're a spoiled princess, Gia. You've never known a day of hardship in your life. This girl works for a living, and you assault her because of your petty jealousy?"

"Jealousy?" I laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound that seemed to multiply against the tile and porcelain. "You are the one holding another woman on the night of our celebration."

"She is a victim!" Franco bellowed. He scooped Camilla up into his arms, bridal style. She buried her face in his neck, hiding her smirk.

"I'm taking her to the hospital," he spat at me. "Find your own ride home."

He walked out. He carried his mistress out of the club, past his friends, past my associates, leaving his fiancée standing alone in a bathroom with a broken lock.

I walked out of the club five minutes later. Xavier tried to stop me.

"Gia, wait, he's just... he's heated," Xavier stammered.

"He's dead to me," I said.

I took a cab home.

I walked into the penthouse. I went directly to the living room.

On the wall hung a calligraphy scroll Franco had written for me for our third anniversary. Eternity, it said.

I pulled it off the wall. I tore it in half. Then in quarters.

I went to the closet. I took every bag, every pair of shoes, every piece of jewelry he had ever bought me. I piled them in the center of the living room floor like a pyre of his offerings.

I took the heavy kitchen shears and started cutting. I drove the shears through supple leather, tore the weave of silk, and shredded the velvet nap. I shredded it all until my hands blistered against the metal handles.

When Franco came home three hours later, the apartment was dark.

He tried the bedroom door. Locked.

"Gia?" he called out, his voice laced with panic. "Gia, open the door. The doctor said she's fine. I just... I overreacted."

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Gia, please. I'm sleeping in the hallway if you don't let me in."

I didn't answer.

Let him sleep on the floor. It was where dogs belonged.