Chapter 1

"Is she actually sick?" asked Julia Rossi. She tapped her fingertip against the side of her glass, her tone probing.

My husband, Federico Moretti, loosened his collar, causing the expensive chain around his neck to catch the light of the crystal chandelier.

"Probably not," he said. "She's seemed fine lately, and she hasn't missed a single shift. Just yesterday, she handed me 50 aureos and said she'd gotten paid. This whole scene today is probably just her trying to make me feel sorry for her."

He tossed the jacket he'd just taken off to a maid, the fabric faded from repeated washings.

The maid bent to catch it and shoved it into the laundry basket without so much as a glance.

I had mended that jacket four times. When the cuffs frayed, I found matching thread at a thrift store and sewed until 2:00 am under the flickering bulb in our basement, my eyes watering from the strain.

That night, he had held me close and said, "Sera, once I've saved enough, I swear I'll never let you suffer like this again."

As it turned out, he only wanted to see how much suffering I was willing to endure for his sake.

Federico pulled a box of supplements from his inner pocket and slid it across the table to Julia. The label bore the logo of a private clinic in Genavia, along with a price tag of 32,000 aureos.

That was enough to cover four years of our living expenses. It was also the amount I couldn't bring myself to spend on my own treatment.

"Didn't you say you were running low on supplements? I got you more. They were flown in from Genavia this morning," Federico said.

Julia leaned in with a smile. "These cost 32,000 aureos. Thank you, Mr. Moretti. If she saw this, wouldn't she cry?"

Federico lit a cigar, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather.

"She can cry. You're not well, and you need them. If she can't even handle this much, then she's too narrow-minded. Not just anyone gets accepted into the Moretti family."

A flash of smugness crossed Julia's eyes, though she softened her voice. "Still, she's your legal wife."

Federico chuckled and tapped the ash off his cigar. "On paper. But the Moretti family hasn't recognized her, has it?"

Behind him, his Mamma, Claudia Romano Moretti, came down the spiral staircase at an unhurried pace.

She wore a cashmere shawl and an emerald ring on her finger. Her eyes drifted toward the basement, and she scoffed.

"Today is the last day," she said, her voice carrying the composure of Sicellian nobility. "If she hadn't pulled this stunt, she could have signed the formal family acceptance agreement tomorrow. Instead, she chooses now to fake an illness. A woman from the slums—she's exactly as low-class as you'd expect."

I froze in place.

The last day? What agreement?

Federico said nothing.

Claudia went on. "Julia has far more sense than she does, and the two of you grew up together. You know each other inside out. I told you to choose Julia years ago, but you wouldn't listen. You had to go and fall for a woman like that.

"You spent four years testing whether she really loves you. By now, you've seen enough. If you insist on bringing her into the family, she has to sign away all claims to the inheritance first."

Julia spoke up gently. "Don't say that, Mrs. Moretti. Sera already has it hard enough."

Claudia sneered. "Hard? A few years in a basement is hard? When the Morettis built this family from nothing, do you have any idea what we went through to get where we are? If she wants everything outside that basement, a little hardship is the bare minimum."

Federico frowned. "Enough, Mamma."

Claudia looked at him. "What's this? Feeling sorry for her? If you feel so sorry for her, go back to your wife."

Federico fell silent for a few seconds. He picked up his phone, and only then did he notice the string of messages from our landlord, Luca Ferrari.

He called back, asking, "What is it now?"

Luca's voice was shaking. "Mr. Moretti, I think something's happened to your wife. I knocked, and nobody answered. All I heard was something hitting the floor inside, like a pill bottle—"

Federico's face went cold. "She's throwing a tantrum. It's all an act. Just ignore her and tell her to open the door herself when she's done."

I looked down and saw the basement light we'd never gotten fixed, still flickering.

Beside the bed, my body had already gone cold, one hand still clenched around the diagnosis report.

On it was written, "Malignant tumor with widespread metastasis. Advanced stage. Immediate hospitalization advised."

And my husband was less than a hundred yards away, waiting for me to admit I was wrong.