Chapter 5

At 3:00 AM, the low hum of voices bled through the cracks of the balcony doors.

I lay awake in the airless dark of the bedroom, listening.

Franco was out there. I heard the distinct, metallic flick of his lighter, followed by the acrid scent of smoke.

"You messed up, man," Xavier's voice whispered, rough with exhaustion. "Leaving Gia at the club? For a waitress?"

"She's not just a waitress," Franco hissed, the defense sharp on his tongue. "She listens to me, X. She looks at me like I'm a god. Like I hung the moon."

He paused, exhaling a long breath. "Gia? Gia looks at me like she's waiting for me to make a mistake. It's exhausting."

"Gia is royalty," Xavier argued, his tone pragmatic. "You marry her, you run the city. That's the deal."

"I know!" Franco snapped, his voice rising before he caught himself. "Why do you think I'm still here? I just need... I need an outlet. Camilla is my solace. Gia is my job."

My job.

I closed my eyes. In the quiet of the room, I felt the final strand of my patience fray and dissolve, leaving nothing but empty air.

The next morning, the kitchen smelled of rich espresso and deception.

Franco was at the counter, humming to himself, acting as if the world hadn't shifted on its axis overnight.

"I have a surprise," he said, turning to me with a brilliant smile that left the muscles around his eyes entirely still. "The dress arrived from Milan."

He gestured to a massive, pristine garment bag hanging on the pantry door.

"Try it on. For me? To make up for last night?"

I didn't argue. I didn't have the energy to fight a war I had already decided to end. I unzipped the bag.

It was a masterpiece of lace and silk, custom-made by the finest atelier in Italy. It cost more than most people's homes.

I went to the guest room and slipped into it. The fabric was heavy, cool against my skin. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.

I didn't look like a bride. I looked like a ghost. A sacrifice dressed for the altar.

I walked out. Franco's mug paused halfway to his mouth. His jaw went slack.

"God, Gia," he breathed, his gaze raking over the silhouette. "You look..."

His phone rang.

The shrill sound severed the quiet. He looked at the screen, and the color drained from his face.

"I have to go," he said, already moving, grabbing his keys off the counter.

"Franco, I'm in my wedding dress," I said, my voice flat.

"It's family business. An emergency with the shipment at the docks. I'll be back before you can unzip."

He ran out the door.

He didn't kiss me goodbye.

I stood there in the deafening silence, the heavy silk of the skirt pooled around my feet like a shroud.

Slowly, mechanically, I walked to my phone and opened Instagram. I navigated straight to Camilla's page.

A new post, uploaded one minute ago. A black screen.

Caption: If I die, will the pain finally stop? Goodbye.

He wasn't going to the docks. He was running to save her from a staged tragedy.

I waited.

Two hours later, another post appeared.

A video. It was taken on a windy beach, the audio distorted by the gale. The camera shook violently before settling on two figures.

Franco. And Camilla.

She was alive. She was wrapped in his suit jacket-the one he'd worn this morning. He was kissing her forehead, his hands tangling desperately in her windblown hair.

The wind carried his voice to the microphone, clear and damning.

"I'm here, baby. I'm not leaving. Forget everyone else. You're the only one who matters."

The caption read: True love leaves everything behind to save you.

I felt a profound and chilling calm settle over me.

I walked to the kitchen drawer and took out the heavy shears.

I grabbed the voluminous skirt of the wedding dress.

Snip.

The sound was satisfying-a violent crunch of steel through silk.

I cut the imported lace. I severed the silk bodice. I hacked at the train until the masterpiece was nothing but ribbons of white trash scattered across the hardwood floor.

I stepped out of the ruins of white silk, standing in the debris wearing only my underwear.

My phone chimed. A text from an unknown number.

I opened it.

It was a photo. Explicit. Franco and Camilla in a tangled mess of sheets. His face was buried in her neck, eyes closed in what looked like pure ecstasy.

Then, a text followed.

He loves my needs. He says you're too stiff. Too much like a statue. I make him feel alive.

I looked at the photo. I waited for the jealousy, the heartbreak. But I felt nothing except a wave of nausea at the sheer pathetic nature of it all.

I typed a single reply.

Keep him.

Then I blocked the number.

I went to the bathroom and turned the shower to the highest heat setting. I stepped in, scrubbing my skin until it was raw and red, trying to wash off eight years of his touch, his lies, his "job."

When I finally stepped out, I wrapped a towel around myself and looked at the mirror.

The face in the glass was not a bride. It was a woman preparing for a trial, and she would be the one to pass sentence.