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shut up. it was just dinner.
publish date:
2026-09-18 17:49:05
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Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi there goes the last shred of my authority
For the next two hours, I worked.Not the aesthetic version of working where a woman wears a nice blazer, moves two sticky notes around, and drinks a latte in front of a window. I actually worked.There was a call about a corporate anniversary in Napa whose tent layout had changed because of a permit issue. There was a bride from Pacific Heights who suddenly decided, six weeks before her wedding, that the color blue made her feel “emotionally cold,” a medical condition my company was apparently expected to cure.There was a lighting vendor who had miscalculated the rigging points, a New York client who wanted to move the rehearsal dinner from a hotel to a yacht, and one internal meeting where I made the entire room go back through the budget until someone found a catering error worth twenty-seven thousand dollars.By ten-thirty, I’d almost forgotten my family was holding an international summit in Bogotá.Then my phone buzzed.Xavier: They’re here.I read the message while signing off
Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi this would be easier if i still hated everyone
I stared at her name for two seconds before answering. “If you’re calling to laugh at me, I’m blocking you.”A long breath came through the speaker. “Jesus Christ, Ara.” Then Iris’s voice followed, so relieved that I immediately sat a little straighter.“Good morning to you too.”“You’re alive.”“Bad for a lot of people.”“I called you eleven times.”“I was in the mountains.”“Mountains have cell service.”“Not the mountains I picked.”“Ara.”“Iris.”She went quiet for a second, then let out another breath. “I’m serious. We all thought something happened to you.”“What happened was a Ricciardi attempting to destroy the Sierra Nevada ecosystem, so technically, yes, there was a disaster.”“I hate you.”“Line’s getting long.”There was faint noise behind her, a door closing, someone speaking in Italian, then Iris pulled the phone away for a moment before coming back.“Okay,” she said. “Mamma wants to talk to you.”I paused. “Now?”“Yes.”“Why do you sound like a nurse about to get the do
Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi i can fix your seating chart, not my life
By eight forty-seven, I’d already canceled one centerpiece, rescued a seating chart from a woman who wanted to put two ex-husbands at the same table, and explained to a florist that ivory and cream were, in fact, two different colors even if God Himself probably regretted creating both of them.So professionally, the morning was going pretty well.I sat in my oversized chair on the second floor of GALA, one leg crossed beneath the walnut desk, my hair twisted into a low bun with a few strands deliberately left loose around my face because I’d figured out years ago that people accepted brutal decisions more easily when the person delivering them looked pretty.My champagne satin blouse was neatly tucked into high-waisted black trousers, I’d already kicked off one heel because my right pinky toe had decided capitalism wasn’t worth fighting for today, and my laptop had sixteen tabs open, all of them apparently more important than my mental health.Outside my office, GALA was fully awake.
Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi rafael : she’s still a problem. i’m apparently into problems.
The penthouse door closed behind me at ten past ten. I dropped my keys on the console by the foyer, took off my watch, then stopped.Silence.More than four thousand square feet in one of the most expensive buildings in downtown San Francisco, floor-to-ceiling glass, Italian marble, dark walnut, furniture chosen by someone in Milan whose fee could probably cover a normal family’s mortgage for several years.From up here, the entire city stretched below me, lights climbing the hills, the Bay Bridge glowing in the distance, fog moving between the buildings.I’d always liked it.Now, silence sounded too loud.I walked into the living room, dropped onto the sofa, and leaned my head back with a rough exhale. I should’ve been exhausted. I’d driven five hours, unpacked luggage, carried two four-year-olds who somehow had the combined weight of gym equipment, helped with dinner, read a princess book with a plot even Gabriella considered weak, then negotiated with Alvaro over the jurisdiction o
Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi shut up. it was just dinner.
Night fell without much drama from the sky, I’d showered and changed into a plain black tank top and gray sweatpants that sat loose around my waist, my hair clipped haphazardly on top of my head.Still, when I came out of the pantry carrying garlic and found Rafael still standing at the island, I started to suspect the man had failed to grasp a very basic concept known as going home.“You know what,” I said, setting the garlic on the cutting board, “usually after someone drives somone home, there’s this revolutionary little thing called goodbye.”He picked up a bell pepper from the bowl. He took the knife anyway and started cutting out the seeds. “I’m helping.”I looked at his hands. “Don’t cut it like that.”He stopped. “Like what?”“You’re taking off too much of the white part.”“You said not too much.”“Yeah, that doesn’t mean you need to perform reconstructive surgery.”Rafael looked at the pepper in his hand, then at me. “Want to do it yourself?”I held out my hand. “Absolutely.
Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi my grudges were doing fine before this
I’d picked it myself out of a hundred and twenty photos full of blur, crying, frosting, baby hands, crooked balloons, and my own face looking like a woman who hadn’t slept in three nights but was still wearing lip gloss because delusion was a survival skill.In the picture, Gabby and Al were sitting side by side in white high chairs. Gabby had on a tiny headband with a pink bow that had already slipped halfway down toward one ear, her entire mouth covered in vanilla frosting, one hand smacking the cake smash with the expression of someone who had just conquered a sugar kingdom.Al, beside her, looked much more serious, one hand buried in the cake, blue eyes fixed on the camera like he was evaluating the quality of the icing and had already identified several structural flaws.Behind them were a gold number-one balloon, a cream-and-gold backdrop, and Zavier’s arm caught in the corner of the frame because he was trying to rescue the candle before Gabby ate it.I had never realized how m
Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi Glass Mansion, Soft Monsters
Five Years Later.“AL, STOP PULLING MY HAIR, I’M A PRINCESS!”“UGLY PRINCESS!”Something small, warm, and heavy slammed into my waist. Then something else landed on my stomach. I didn’t wake up because of an alarm, but because two tiny bodies decided I was their personal playground.“Oh God,” I ras
Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi 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 r
Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi He Never Chose Me
“Wow,” I said at last, closing the door behind me with a soft click. “I thought you were still busy having a reunion with your ex.”His gaze dropped for a second, traveling down my body. From the thin heels, to my bare legs, to where the dress cinched at my waist, to the neckline that was bold enou
Second Time, Mrs. Ricciardi The Wife
The small pan hissed softly as the oil heated, the sharp scent of roughly crushed garlic already filling the kitchen before I realized I was humming. Fuck.A Shakira song.Wildly off-brand for this morning’s mood, which had gone to hell at five twelve a.m. sharp, when Arsen, the technological basta
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