I Will Not Shatter.

It’s been a month since Nico and I married. A month since I said I do to a man whose heart seems buried under layers of ice, locked away from me despite the vows we exchanged. In public, I’m his wife. On paper, I’m his possession. In private… I don’t know what I am. A ghost in his home? A duty he resents? He doesn’t spend time with me. Not unless it’s crawling into my bed in the dead of night like a shadow. No words. No warmth. Just his body claiming space beside mine as if muscle memory guided him there, and more often than not, he’s gone before the sun rises. The space he leaves is always cold. I cook for him. Every day. His favorite dishes. Meals I painstakingly learn from his housekeeper just to please him. And every afternoon, I find the same thing, neatly covered plates in the trash. Untouched. Unwanted.

When I ask where my husband is during the day, I’m met with the same flat response from the staff:

“That’s not your business, Mrs Moretti.” But it is. Isn’t it? I try. God, I try. I wear the silks he buys. Smile at the right people. Keep my voice soft, my eyes down, my presence quiet. I reach for him in conversation only to be met with silence or carefully measured words that don’t mean anything. He’s there, but not with me.

But tonight…Tonight, there’s a crack in the walls he’s built between us. A charity dinner. He told me, offhandedly, two nights ago that I’d be attending with him. Just that. No details. No warmth. But something about the way he said it stuck with me. Maybe it’s foolish, maybe I’m reading too much into the simple invitation. But hope has a cruel way of growing in the emptiest places. So I’ve prepared. I spent the whole day trying to turn myself into someone he might see. I had my hair done, soft waves cascading down my back. My nails are a pale blush, matching the lipstick I tried three versions of before landing on this one. My gown is midnight blue silk, hugging my body in all the right places. The heels hurt, but I wear them anyway. The necklace around my neck is diamonds, his wedding gift, still in the velvet box until tonight. I’ve polished myself to perfection. I want him to see me. Please… just see me. Now I wait, standing at the top of the stairs like a girl going to her first dance. Nervous. Hopeful. A little afraid. The ticking of the clock echoes louder than it should. Every second feels like a judgment. And still… he hasn’t come.

"Ava."

The voice is soft. Almost hesitant. I turn toward it, finding Hayden standing just a few steps behind me, his usual professional calm replaced with something heavier, pity. The kind I’m getting used to wearing like a second skin. He speaks low, careful not to let anyone nearby hear the informal way he addresses me. “He isn’t coming, is he?”

I already know the answer, but I ask anyway. Hope’s a cruel thing like that. “No. I'm sorry, he's...” he trails off, looking like he wants to shield me from the words even though we both already know them.

“Busy,” I finish for him, forcing a brittle smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

Silence stretches between us. He’s waiting, probably for me to retreat to my room, to cancel everything, to cry quietly where no one can see. But I won’t. Not tonight. Not after everything I’ve done to feel like I might matter, even for just one evening.

“Well,” I inhale sharply, lifting my chin and straightening my spine, “I’m not letting all this effort go to waste. Have the drivers bring the car around front, please.”

He hesitates, just a flicker of it, but then nods, silent understanding passing between us. He doesn’t try to stop me. I descend the staircase slowly, each step deliberate, as though I’m walking into battle. My heels click sharply against the marble, a staccato rhythm that echoes louder than my heartbeat. My gown sways with every movement, flawless and expensive and heartbreakingly empty of purpose. My chest aches.

But my head stays high.

The car pulls up to the banquet hall, sleek and black, shining under the golden lights of the venue. Outside, a long red carpet stretches toward the entrance, cameras flashing like starlight on speed. Paparazzi swarm the edge, shouting names and snapping photos without pause. The driver opens the door, and I step out into the flurry. For a split second, the world seems to hold its breath. The flashes increase, and the chorus begins.

“Mrs. Moretti! Ava! Where is your husband tonight?”

“Is Mr. Moretti arriving separately?”

“Did he send you alone?”

“Trouble in paradise already?”

I don't answer. I don't even blink. I simply walk, slow, measured steps, shoulders back, face a mask of unbothered grace. Let them whisper. Let them speculate. I earned this moment. Even if I have to take it alone. Inside, the building is all glass and gold, chandeliers glittering above a sea of wealth and tailored suits. An usher checks the guest list and gives me a polite nod before leading me through the crowd to a round table near the center of the room. There are couples already seated, wealthy men with polished smiles and women in flawless gowns, dripping in stones. They eye me with idle curiosity, some polite, some assessing. A few single men sit among them too, drinks in hand and eyes flicking my way with interest. But the seat beside mine remains empty. As if the room itself is waiting for someone who never intended to arrive. I smile softly at no one in particular. Sit down. Cross my legs. Lift a glass of champagne from the table without hesitation. Let them think what they will. Let them believe what they want. I am Ava Moretti.

And I will not shatter in front of them.