His Perfect Marriage Cost Me Everything

I booked a refundable flight to Portland for the following Friday afternoon. Mom still lived there. I would stay with her while I found work and somewhere of my own.

Before I left, I needed the doctor to clear me to fly and send my records to a specialist near her.

When the hospital asked me to stay overnight, I looked at the estimate.

The nurse pulled up a chair.

“We can arrange payment later. Right now, we need to monitor you and the baby.”

I called Mom and told her where I was. Then I put my phone away and stayed.

The next morning, the doctor discharged me with instructions to rest, attend the follow-up appointment, and return immediately if the pain or bleeding worsened.

I asked her to write everything down.

Dante could argue with me. He could read the same instructions I had.

By the time I reached the brownstone, my bandaged palms were damp with rain.

Two of Dante’s soldiers stood at the entrance. One opened the door without meeting my eyes. Once, he would have called a driver before letting me take a bus. Now everyone knew the new rules.

A pair of white stilettos sat in the foyer.

Vivienne was at the dining table. My husband’s house, my husband’s wine, my place at the table.

She looked up and made a mark in her notebook.

“Elena did no housework today. Earned nothing. Offered no emotional support. Zero across all three categories.”

“I was in the hospital.”

“We’re recording contributions, not excuses.”

Dante came out of the kitchen carrying two plates.

“Viv will be staying here while we work through this,” he said. “She needs to observe us in our normal environment.”

“Dante, I don’t want—”

“Come and eat first.” He pulled out my chair. “You haven’t eaten. We can talk afterward.”

For a moment, I heard the man who used to wait outside the diner with a scarf tucked inside his jacket to keep it warm for me.

Then he glanced at the notebook.

“And try to take the feedback seriously. I’m doing this because I want us to last.”

In the world Dante ruled, men lowered their voices when he entered a room. A word from him could end a feud. Yet he was waiting for Vivienne to tell him whether inviting his wife to dinner counted as progress.

I sat down.

Vivienne had foie gras, caviar, and a thick steak. Dante put a plate of fried potatoes in front of me.

“Made these myself.”

The smell turned my stomach. I kept my hands in my lap.

Vivienne sighed, as though I had performed exactly on cue.

“See? She’s learned to measure love by the price tag. You cooked for her, and all she sees is cheap food.”

“It’s the smell,” I said. “You know I can’t—”

“She used to be so careful with money,” Vivienne continued. “But that was before she secured her place. Sometimes apparent selflessness is just a long-term investment.”

Dante’s expression closed.

“Don’t call her that,” he said, too late and too mildly.

“I’m describing the behavior, Dante.”

He looked at my untouched plate.

“Elena. You could at least appreciate the effort.”

Years ago, a sack of potatoes could keep us fed until payday. I bought one from a clearance bin, cut away the worst spots, and told myself the rest would be fine.

I spent that night vomiting into a bucket while Dante held my hair.

Afterward, even the smell of frying potatoes made me sick.

He knew. When the Moretti money finally came back, he had told the chef never to serve them to me.

Now he watched me struggle not to gag and waited for an apology.