Sunlight and Divorce Papers

I woke up because the sun slapped me in the face. White-gold light speared through the thin curtains, landing directly on my eyelids that had never volunteered to become solar panels. I blinked slowly, trying to gather the pieces of my soul scattered across the sheets.

The clock on the nightstand read 10:03.

I stared at it for a long moment. My brain needed a few seconds to connect the facts.

I.

Woke up.

At ten. A.m.

Usually by six I was already up, sitting in the kitchen with coffee, staring at Lake Como or a bug on my screen. Now my whole body felt weighed down with concrete.

I rolled slowly to the other side of the bed.

The sheets were still warm. But the space beside me was empty. Rafael’s pillow was cold, no trace of the shape of his head. All that was left were creases in the sheets and the faint ghost of his cologne, tangled with something I did not want to define too clearly unless I wanted to throw up my feelings.

His chest had been under my head last night. His hands… his mouth…

Now there was nothing but expensive linen and empty space.

When I forced myself to sit up, a wave of soreness rose from my lower back, spreading down my thighs and up into my shoulders. Muscles protested like they’d been dragged through a marathon without warning. I groaned softly, one hand bracing my stomach, the other tugging halfheartedly at the messy sheets.

There were marks on my skin. A bite on my shoulder, purpling along my breast, faint bruises on my hips, finger-shaped impressions along my waist. On my neck, just under my jawline, something throbbed when I pressed it. I exhaled through my nose, short.

Well. Yeah. When Rafael said “last,” he wasn’t joking. He was always serious about boundaries. And about wrecking people in the neatest way possible.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, hunched over, hair falling forward in a tangle. My hand went automatically to my ring.

Still there.

Cold gold sitting on skin that was still warm from last night.

Shit.

I finally stood, slowly, my feet sinking into the carpet. Every step came with a small ache that replayed scenes from last night like a movie trailer I hadn’t asked for.

The bathroom felt too bright. The lights exposed everything without mercy.

I stood in front of the mirror for a few seconds, looking at the woman there. Tangled hair. Mascara smudged faintly under my eyes. My lips still a little swollen, a red line that wasn’t from lipstick. On my neck, that bluish-purple mark bloomed, too loud to be allowed to exist.

I let out an empty little laugh. “Congratulations, Ara,” I murmured to my reflection. “You’ve officially become the wet tissue poster girl: used and thrown away.”

Hot water from the shower hit my skin like good intentions arriving late. I scrubbed the soap in too hard, as if I could erase last night if I just worked at it enough. The marks flushed red beneath the suds, a few stinging when my fingers brushed over them.

His cologne slowly washed off, replaced by the floral scent of my body wash. My choice. But the sensation of him… his hands, his weight, the sound of my own breathing… stayed in places hot water couldn’t reach.

I closed my eyes and bowed my head, letting the water run over my face for a long time. My back pressed against the cold marble wall. Hot and cold mixed together, just like last night’s too-much-fire and this morning’s too-much-ice.

By the time I stepped out, my skin was flushed pink, my wet hair dripping down my shoulders. I wrapped a towel around my body, grabbed another for my hair, and headed into the walk-in closet.

The closet was like a small museum to my ego: one side full of dresses and gowns, shades and textures lined up in smug rows, heels arranged on the shelves like they charged rent. The other side full of a man’s suits: fresh white shirts, gray, black, and navy jackets, ties hanging in neat gradients, leather shoes always polished to a shine.

I stood in the middle.

One day, one of these sides would be empty. The expensive wood shelves would lose their weight. I’d pack my suitcases and fly back to Boston, and he’d fill the closet for the next Mrs. Ricciardi.

My hand lifted on instinct, fingers brushing the sleeve of one shirt. The fabric felt smooth under my fingertips.

“Don’t be dramatic,” I whispered to myself. “It’s just textiles, not a heart.”

I picked the most neutral lounge dress I owned: a knee-length cream cotton dress with a simple cut and three-quarter sleeves. Modest enough to cover most of the bruises, soft enough not to annoy my skin.

At the small vanity, I checked my neck again. I covered the worst mark with concealer, then added a thin high collar and a delicate necklace. A little concealer under my eyes, a touch of blush, brows.

By the time I went downstairs to the main floor, the house felt too quiet. My steps echoed on the marble stairs. Through the big hallway windows, Lake Como had already shifted from gray to bright blue, sunlight skipping over the surface like nothing had shattered in the stone house above it.

The kitchen and dining room were already set, as usual. Giancarlo never failed.

On the table, there were no arepas and eggs waiting.

Just a moka pot of espresso, a few cornetti, sliced bread, jam, butter, a small bowl of fruit, yogurt.

“Normal” Italian breakfast.

I pulled out a chair and sat, my back automatically straight.

The chair at the end of the table, Rafael’s favorite, was empty. His napkin was folded neatly on his plate, untouched.

In front of me, right above my plate, lay a thin black folder.

My name was printed in the center: Arabella Paloma Garcia-Ricciardi.

I stared at the letters for a long time. My fingers brushed over the surface, feeling the faint roughness of the cardstock. The whole world seemed to shrink down to that flat, quiet object.

Then I took a breath and opened it.

White pages. A few sheets, filled with Italian and English. Words my eyes caught and clung to:

separazione dei beni, accordo preliminare, division of assets, meeting con le famiglie, dates scribbled in the margins.

A small note in handwriting that wasn’t Rafael’s but had that legal stiffness:  Draft only. Subject to discussion with both parties.

I closed the folder carefully, flipped it over, and set it beside my plate.

It weighed the same. Only its place on the table had changed.

My stomach rebelled at the idea of food. But I still took a cornetto, tore off the tip, spread a little jam. Sugar and butter hit my tongue, tasting like cardboard.

“Signora?” Giancarlo’s voice floated in softly from the kitchen. He appeared a second later, white apron spotless, his brows drawn slightly together. “Is the breakfast to your liking?”

I lifted my gaze, forcing a smile. “It is,” I said. My voice sounded… reasonably normal. “Thank you, Gio. It’s very… Italian.”

He glanced once at the black folder by my plate, then back at my face. “Is there something wrong, ma’am?”

A lot.

I shook my head, tearing off another piece of the cornetto. “Nothing.”

His expression softened. He didn’t ask again. He just stepped closer, setting an espresso cup in front of my hand. Beside it, without a word, he placed a small cloth napkin.

My phone buzzed on the table.

I turned my head. The screen lit up: an Italian number I didn’t have saved. The preview showed a picture. One large image.

I opened the message.

A selfie. Alessandra in the passenger seat of a car, her blonde hair falling perfectly over her shoulders, nude gloss on her lips, skin poreless and smooth. Her head tilted slightly toward the man beside her, making sure both of them were in frame.

Rafael was driving, his left hand on the wheel, his right on the gear shift. His jaw was sharp, eyes focused on the road, not the camera.

He was smiling.

The caption under the photo was a single, clean line, in sharp English.

Unknown: He chose where he belongs. Try not to embarrass yourself.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds. The silence in my head vanished, replaced by a faint buzzing, like a bee trapped behind my ear.

My left hand curled into a fist on my thigh, fingers pressing into the fabric of my dress until my nails almost pierced through, while my thumb hovered over the keyboard.

I could delete this message. Block the number. Pretend I’d never received it. Let her win alone in a game I hadn’t agreed to play.

Or… I could do the one thing I’ve always done better than any of them.

I typed slowly.

Me: Congrats. Make sure you thank your surgeon in your vows.

Me: PS: At least my boobs are real, so we both know who actually won the genetics.

I hit send before my common sense could intervene.

The double checkmarks appeared. Then “typing…” blinked beneath.

I didn’t wait for her reply. I’d had enough poison for the day.

I flipped my phone over, screen facedown on the table.

I went back to the cornetto. Powdered sugar dusted my fingertips, then smeared onto my lips. I took another bite. The sweetness hit my tongue, but something salty followed it.

A single drop fell onto the plate. It bled into the strawberry jam, creating a small pattern no one had asked for.

I blinked quickly, swallowing hard.

The second tear landed on the back of my hand. The skin went cold where it hit.

I picked up the napkin Giancarlo had left, pretending I was just wiping my mouth, when really I was swiping at the corners of my eyes.

Out of the corner of my vision, Giancarlo moved around the kitchen, busy with dishes, too focused to notice.

I let out a slow, careful breath, pressing down on the sound that wanted to claw its way out of my chest.

Another bite.

Another sip of espresso.

If I kept eating and drinking, if I kept my mouth busy, maybe there wouldn’t be room for anything else. No space for the words pushing against my teeth: don’t, wait, try, choose me.

I reached for the last piece of cornetto and took a bite.

Another tear fell, forming a small circle on the plate, mixing with sugar and jam.

I ate until the plate was empty.

If Rafael really wanted to wipe me out of his life, fine.

But he was never going to say I left halfway elegant.

Even on the day I was discarded after being used, even with a draft divorce on the table and a selfie from his ex on my phone, I still sat up straight, wore a pretty dress, and finished my breakfast.