Nine Postponed Weddings, One Final Goodbye

Clara POV

“Before we change the digital displays, should I call Mr. Rinaldi?”

“No. ”

I ended the call before she could ask anything else.

I looked around the house that was supposed to become ours after the wedding.

I had chosen almost nothing in it. Bianca had replaced the dining-room light, picked the bedroom curtains, and filled every room with fig candles, even though the scent gave me headaches.

Her hair clip and perfume were still beside the downstairs sink.

The house already felt more like hers than mine.

My phone lit up.

Dante: The planner says you’ve been making changes.

I typed: One final correction. It’s handled.

A few minutes later, he sent a photograph. Bianca stood on a fitting platform in a silver gown, one hand resting on his shoulder. His face was mostly hidden by the phone, but I recognized the concentration in the set of his mouth. He was adjusting the clasp at her back.

Bianca’s at her fitting. The fastening caught. I’ll be home later.

At my own fitting last week, the satin bodice had cut into my ribs every time I breathed. I had called him from behind the curtain, embarrassed by how badly I wanted him there.

“Ask the seamstress, Clara. Bianca’s driver has had an accident. I’m going to get her.”

The driver had scratched a wheel against a curb. Bianca had not even been in the car.

I had learned that afterward, from the story she told over dinner. Dante laughed when she described how quickly he arrived.

I pressed Call.

“Clara?”

“We need to talk. I’m ending the engagement.”

“Dante, come here.” Bianca’s voice carried clearly through the phone. “Does this one make my shoulders look too broad?”

“No.” His voice softened. “You look beautiful.”

There was a rustle, then he came back to me. “What were you saying?”

“I said the wedding—”

“Please tell me you aren’t changing the plans again. Everything is finally settled.”

I looked at Bianca’s perfume on the counter.

“Yes. I think it is.”

“Good. And I got you something.” He sounded pleased with himself. “A bracelet. I’ll bring it home.”

“Oh, Clara, you’ll love it,” Bianca called. “They included it with the emerald cuff Dante bought me. It’s only silver, but you don’t wear much jewelry anyway.”

He said her name, mildly. The way he might correct a child for interrupting.

“What? I meant it as a compliment. We could both wear them on Saturday.”

I could picture her lifting her wrist for the cameras, the emeralds bright against her skin, while I wore the shop’s complimentary gift.

“Thank you,” I said. “Both of you.”

I hung up.

A year ago, that conversation would have ended with me crying in this bathroom. I would have waited for him to come home, then tried to explain why it hurt. He would have kissed my forehead and reminded me that Bianca’s father had died protecting his.

“She’s family, Clara. I owe her.”

Somewhere along the way, he had decided I owed her, too.

The first postponement had been for her surgery. I had understood that one. The next was for a panic attack. Then a security concern. Then she could not bear to return to New York alone.

By the ninth, I had stopped telling my colleagues the new dates.

In the bedroom, I took my old suitcase from the top of the wardrobe. The shelves were full of clothes bought for Rinaldi dinners, most selected by an assistant. I left them hanging and packed jeans, two good jackets, my boots, and the sweater I wore when I worked late.

My laptop went in last, beside the portfolio Dante had once asked me to move because it was taking up his side of the desk.

An email arrived from my editor in New York.

Paris has confirmed your transfer. Your visa and contract are in order. We can finalize travel as soon as you give us a date. Are you certain you want to go ahead? I thought Saturday was the wedding.

Six weeks earlier, after Dante postponed it for the ninth time, I had submitted my application in a café while he flew Bianca to Lake Como to recover from a difficult month.

I had told him I was applying. He had said, “We’ll discuss it when things are quieter,” and gone back to his phone.

I opened the attachment. Features Editor. Atelier, Paris office.

I read my name twice.

Then I replied: I’m certain. Please book the earliest practical flight. I’ll confirm the departure once I’ve arranged everything here.

For once, the next date on my calendar would belong to me.