Platinum Barbie

Seven p.m., and Lake Como looked like an expensive postcard that had been photographed to death. Deep blue, almost black. Villa lights scattered messily across the water. A thin veil of fog hovering low, like a cheap filter no one bothered to turn off.

From the study window facing the lake, everything reduced itself to silhouettes. Water. Distant lights. And my own reflection in the glass.

My hair was tied back neatly now. The Columbia T-shirt was gone, replaced by an oversized black hoodie. My laptop sat open, the screen crowded with lines of code and Raj’s sharp commentary from Boston.

Raj: Can you PLEASE stop writing like you’re trying to flirt with the compiler, Ara?

Raj: The function either works or it doesn’t. It doesn’t need to be sexy.

I snorted softly, fingers still flying across the keyboard. “My compiler might not need sexy,” I muttered, eyes glued to the screen. “But my life does.”

On the desk: two empty coffee mugs, yellow sticky notes scattered like casualties, a tangled charger cable. The antique clock on the wall ticked loudly, only because the house was too quiet.

Seven ten.

Rafael still wasn’t home. His version of I’ll be late could mean tomorrow morning, tie crooked, wearing a new cologne.

My phone buzzed beside the laptop. 

WE ARE HOT BITCHESS!

The chat group name flashed on the screen, complete with our profile photo from three years ago. The three of us, eyeliner too thick, smiles too wide. Salma named the group. Said we were too hot for a normal name.

She wasn’t wrong.

I ignored it, refocusing on the payment bug stubbornly refusing to behave around time zones. Numbers. Offsets. Conversions. My eyes burned, my brain overheated, my fingers kept typing.

The message hadn’t even sent when my phone vibrated again.

Once.

Twice. 

Three times in a row.

I grabbed the phone with one hand and swiped the screen open.

The first photo filled my vision.

A restaurant in Milan. An outdoor terrace. Warm yellow lights. Small tables crowded with tall wine glasses. People in neat wool coats, cigarettes balanced between fingers, laughter frozen in the cold air.

And in the center of the frame, as if the photographer had been hired specifically for this moment—

Rafael.

Not the tux suit from this morning. A different boomber jacket. His shirt slightly open. One hand in his pocket. The other resting on the back of a woman.

The woman was laughing, head tilted slightly. Long blonde hair cascading like a shampoo commercial that had aired one too many times. Sleek. Perfect. High cheekbones, sharp nose, full lips painted in expensive nude. A tight dress clinging like a second skin, stilettos sky-high. The kind of shoes that destroy ankles but rescue egos.

Alessandra Marino.

My brain instantly supplied the memory of how she’d wrapped herself around Rafael’s arm at our engagement party. The way she’d scanned me from head to toe like I was a fake ring that had somehow wandered into display.

From hair to stilettos: fully upgraded.

Also… fully plastic, if you asked me.

I swiped.

The second photo was closer. Rafael leaning down, his mouth almost brushing Alessandra’s ear. Alessandra’s hand rested on his chest, red nails pressed against the black fabric of his shirt. From this angle, Rafael’s jawline cut sharp. Faint stubble shadowing his skin. And at the corner of his mouth—

A smile. He never smile like that.. with me.

I swiped again.

The third photo. They were leaving the restaurant. Paparazzi flashes burst. Alessandra pressed closer to his side. Rafael didn’t pull her in. But he didn’t step away either.

Salma’s messages popped up directly beneath the photos.

Salma: I know you’re going to say “don’t send me stuff like this again,” but…

Salma: babe, your husband showed up in Milan tonight.

Salma: with Miss Silicone Deluxe.

I pressed my lips together, irritated.

I zoomed in on Rafael’s face in the last photo. He didn’t look guilty. He didn’t look rushed to get home to the wife who’d made him arepas this morning.

“Nice,” I murmured. “Outstanding commitment, Ricciardi.”

My fingers tapped against the side of my phone, nails clicking softly against the case. My breath moved in and out in a rhythm that was a little too controlled.

I wasn’t a seventeen-year-old girl crying in a school bathroom. I’m Arabella Paloma Garcia.

I wrote code. I cracked encryption. And if necessary, I could break a man’s head in very creative ways.

Another notification slid in.

Salma: Renna & I are free tonight. 

Salma: Yes, even Princess Pediatrics. Her shift ends at 7.

Salma: Let’s go out.

Salma: New club in Brera. Hot DJ. Hotter bartender.

Salma: And tequila is always more honest than your husband.

I stared at the messages for a few seconds.

Then I snapped my laptop shut in one clean motion. The click sounded louder than it should have. The screen went dark, and suddenly the window turned into a full mirror.

Staring back at me: a worn black hoodie, a messy bun, and blue eyes far too bright for a woman who had just watched her life wander into a tabloid moment with her husband’s ex.

“Well,” I said. “One year months of marriage and we’re already in the cliché chapter.”

I stood. The chair squeaked in protest against the wooden floor. My bare feet met the biting cold, dragging me down from my head and back into my body.

“Great,” I hissed softly.

I glanced at the antique clock on the wall. The long hand crawled toward seven twenty.

If Rafael came home at nine… he’d come home to an empty bedroom.

A small part of my chest whispered quietly: just sit on the couch. Turn on the TV. Pretend to read the same page of a book for two hours. Smile faintly when he walks in. Ask, how was the meeting? Pretend you don’t smell someone else’s perfume on his collar.

Another part of me leaned back, crossed its arms, raised a brow.

You’re really going to sit pretty at home while he’s possibly ordering a second bottle of wine with a platinum Barbie across from him?

I let out a short breath.

“Yeah,” I told myself, pulling open the desk drawer and grabbing my red lipstick. “No.”

>...<

Brera always looks like a movie that’s been run through too many filters. Yellow lights strung above cobblestone streets, music spilling out of club doors, people smelling like money and niche perfume.

I stood at the bar, elbow resting against dark wood, a tequila glass in my hand. A black mini dress hugged my body, the fabric clinging to my waist and hips. My hair was down, loose waves spilling over my back. My lips were painted a deep red.

“If he saw you right now, he’d faint,” Salma commented, checking the highlighter on my cheekbones. “Or suffer a mild stroke.”

“I hope the stroke hits his wallet,” I muttered, downing the tequila. The liquid burned its way down my throat, blurring the world just enough to make it easier to laugh at.

The man beside me glanced over. Expensive leather shoes. A good watch. A practiced smile. “Posso offrirti un drink?”

I turned slowly, offered him a sweet smile. “Already have one,” I said pleasantly, lifting my glass. “But thanks for the offer.”

I didn’t need another man.

I didn’t even need the one currently eating dessert with his ex.

What I needed was music that slammed into my chest, lights too bright to think under, and the feeling that for a few hours I wasn’t Mrs. Ricciardi.

Just Arabella Garcia. Tight dress. Real breasts paid for by God, not a plastic surgeon.

On the dance floor, the three of us disappeared into the crush of bodies. Salma screamed when her favorite song came on. Renna, usually the calm one, laughed too, her hair swinging free.

My hands were in the air. My hips moved with the bass.

For a few minutes, my marriage felt as far away as Boston.

I got home at twelve forty-five. My stiletto heels clicked softly against the marble floor of the Ricciardi hallway.

This mansion has its own nighttime soundtrack. The hum of the AC. The antique clock. Wind rolling in off the lake. Everything else… silence. Dim lights lined the corridor, like they were afraid to wake a sleeping king.

I opened the bedroom door carefully, fully prepared for darkness and an empty bed. I’d already rehearsed the sarcastic narration in my head: Turns out Mrs. Silicone is more fun than the legal wife. Noted.

What I hadn’t prepared for was the low lamp light.

And Rafael sitting on the edge of the bed.

His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows. The tie was gone. The top button undone, exposing the skin of his throat, which, annoyingly, used to be my favorite place to leave my mouth. His jacket hung over a chair. His shoes were off.

Those gray eyes locked onto the door the moment I stepped inside, like he’d been sitting there long enough to memorize the wall clock.

I stopped in the doorway, one hand still on the handle. My black dress caught the leftover gleam of club lights. The scent of tequila, smoke, and Chanel followed me in.

We just stared at each other.

Five seconds.