Chapter 3

(Celeste Moretti’s POV)

Stefano didn’t come home last night. Neither did Bianca.

After her husband’s death, Tiziana had claimed that staying at the Conti estate brought back too many painful memories, so she’d moved into a luxury penthouse downtown. Where Stefano and Bianca had spent the night, I didn’t need to guess.

I packed the important documents into my handbag, straightened my coat, and opened the door.

Adelina was already in the sitting room.

She sat on the sofa with a cup of red tea, one leg crossed over the other, her expression carrying that particular brand of contempt she reserved exclusively for me.

“Up so early?” She took a slow sip, watching me over the rim of her cup. “I assumed you’d spend the morning in bed playing the tragic heroine.”

I had spent years stopping in my tracks whenever she spoke, lowering my eyes, waiting for the lecture to end. Years of absorbing her disapproval because I knew what she thought—that I was a housekeeper’s daughter, common and unworthy, nothing compared to the elegant Tiziana Conti who could have brought the family actual glory.

Not this morning.

I adjusted my collar and gave her a sideways glance, my tone easy. “Morning, Adelina. Lovely mood you’re in, as always.” I didn’t break my stride toward the door. “Someone in this house has to actually do something useful. Can’t all of us just sit around drinking tea and judging people, can we?”

I rushed into the study before she could respond. I still had a document left there.

I pushed the door open.

The other private safe in the corner of the wall intrigued me—it seemed never to have been allowed to open. What could be inside? I tried Stefano’s birthday first. Red light. Then Bianca’s. Red light again.

I stared at the keypad for a moment, then typed in Tiziana’s birthday.

A soft beep. The door swung open.

I almost laughed. Almost.

Then I saw what was inside, and the urge to laugh died completely.

Photographs. Dozens of them, organized with a care I’d never seen Stefano apply to anything involving me. Tiziana sleeping, her face relaxed and unguarded. Tiziana reading in the garden, her hair catching the afternoon light. Tiziana laughing with a small dog tucked under her arm. Every single one had been taken without her knowledge.

I turned one over. On the back, in Stefano’s bold, angular handwriting: The love of my life.

I turned over another. Same handwriting. The love of my life.

Then I found one near the bottom of the stack. I flipped it over.

I got married. She looks like you.

He’d always insisted I keep my hair a certain shade. Whenever I’d let it fade, he’d already booked the stylist to come to the house before I’d thought to mention it. I’d taken it as attentiveness. A rare, small sign that he noticed me.

He’d been coloring me in to match her.

I stood there in his study, breathing through the nausea, and understood with absolute clarity what I had been for the last several years. Not a wife. Not even a person, really. A prop. A stand-in. A pale imitation of the woman he actually wanted.

I pulled out my phone and photographed every piece of evidence methodically. Then I closed the safe, wiped the keypad clean, and left the room exactly as I’d found it.

The Sterling Law Group occupied the top three floors of a glass tower downtown. The reception area was all clean lines and expensive silence. A polished young woman at the front desk told me that the attorney Carmelita had booked for me, Linda, was still in a meeting and would I mind waiting?

I didn’t mind. I sat down and opened a novel on my phone.

A few minutes later, the automatic glass doors slid open. I had the distinct sense of being watched, and I glanced up—but I only caught a man’s back as the receptionist led him through a side corridor. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a bespoke suit that fit him with the kind of precision that didn’t come from off a rack. The fabric had a quiet, expensive sheen under the office lights. He didn’t look at me.

I looked back down at my phone.

Ten minutes later, the receptionist came over with a small apologetic smile. “Ms. Moretti, I’m so sorry—Linda is going to be a while longer. But our senior partner, Mr. Sebastian, has a window right now and would be happy to see you instead, if that works?”

I accepted immediately.

Sebastian looked exactly like what he was—a man who’d never lost a case and knew it. Tall, rimless glasses, a smile that was charming in a slightly detached way. He gestured for me to sit across from his desk and listened without interrupting as I laid out the marriage, the miscarriage, the ski trip, the group chat, the safe.

I showed him the photographs on my phone.

He pushed his glasses up and studied them. Then he leaned back in his chair and gave me the kind of look that meant he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear.

“Legally speaking, this falls under emotional infidelity at best,” his tone was measured, not unkind. “It’s damaging. It’s morally reprehensible. But it’s going to be very difficult to have it recognized as material fault in court.”

"I understand."

"Then let me ask you something more important." Sebastian folded his hands on the desk and looked at me directly. "Do you want full custody of your daughter?"

Bianca’s face surfaced in my mind—not the bright, laughing face from that Cervinia video, but the way she’d looked at me last week. Flat. Irritated. Like I was a stranger who’d wandered into a room she was using.

"I haven’t decided yet," I said.

Sebastian nodded slowly, no judgment in his expression. "I’ll prepare two versions of the divorce agreement. One that includes a custody claim, one that doesn’t. You can decide which direction you want to go when you’re ready."

I thanked him and stood to leave.

(Author’s POV)

What Celeste didn’t know was that the moment she stepped into the elevator, a door at the back of Sebastian’s office opened.

Vincenzo Conti walked in from the adjoining room, hands in his pockets, and moved to stand at the floor-to-ceiling window. Below, a slight figure in a dark coat emerged from the building’s entrance and disappeared into the flow of traffic.

Sebastian watched him from behind his desk. "Vincenzo." There was a note of amusement in his voice. "She’s your nephew’s wife. Stefano’s wife toward a divorce lawyer—is that really appropriate?"

The reply was the man’s tall, silent back.

~~~~~~~~

(Celeste’s POV)

Bianca was sitting on the living room carpet when I got back, holding a teddy bear with one arm torn clean off at the seam.

Something in me moved automatically. I walked over and crouched down. "Give it here, Bianca. Mom will sew it back."

Bianca looked at me, then at the bear, then stood up and dropped it straight into the wastepaper basket beside the sofa. She lifted her chin with an expression of supreme authority that looked wrong on a child her age.

"Mama Tiziana says we replace things. We don’t fix them like poor people." She brushed her hands together as if disposing of something unpleasant. "Since you’re so keen on doing that kind of work, why don’t you go wash all the stuffed animals in my room?"

I looked at her. My daughter. My face in miniature.

"Go ask your Mama Tiziana to wash them," I said, keeping my voice even.

Bianca’s eyes went wide with genuine outrage. "Mama Tiziana’s hands are for playing piano and painting. She’s an artist. She doesn’t do that kind of thing."

"And what am I?" The words came out before I could stop them. "What do you think I am, Bianca? Your maid?"

"What on earth is going on?" Adelina’s voice cut across the room as she swept in from the hallway, her heels sharp on the hardwood. She took one look at the scene and her face arranged itself into familiar disapproval. "Celeste, what is wrong with you? Making a scene in front of the child?"

She pulled Bianca against her side, rubbing the girl’s shoulder. "Don’t pay any attention to her, sweetheart. Your mama’s just being difficult today."

Bianca tucked herself against her grandmother and looked at me with an expression of total vindication.

I stood there and looked at both of them—the grandmother and the granddaughter, one teaching and one learning, both already so certain of my place in this house.

I turned and walked upstairs.

Bianca had been completely poisoned by the Conti family’s upbringing, and if I forcibly took custody of her, it would only make her hate me even more. Perhaps I needed to become stronger in order to regain my daughter’s respect.

After dinner, I took the divorce papers out of my bag, slipped them into Bianca’s summer camp file, tidied it up, and then knocked on Stefano’s study door.

He was at his desk. He looked up, mildly impatient.

"Bianca’s enrollment waiver for next semester and her summer camp application." I kept my voice neutral, sliding the folder across his desk. "The school’s been asking for a parent signature."

He picked up his pen. I watched him flip through the first page, then the second. He was being unusually thorough tonight. My heartbeat climbed into my throat. He turned to the third page. One more page after this.

"Stefano." I interrupted his action. "There’s actually something else I wanted to discuss."