She Stole the Life I Was Escaping

The smell of toasted cheese drifted upstairs with an old song from the radio. I pulled on a cardigan and went down, nearly colliding with a woman carrying a cast-iron pan.

Lucia, Mara’s mother, nudged spools of thread aside with her elbow. “Morning. Burned the sourdough a little. Pick whichever half you want.” A bowl of tomato soup sat beside it, the rim chipped. “Not in the mood? There’s turkey in the fridge. I can make something else.”

Nobody in the Falcone house had ever asked what I wanted to eat. Depending on the day’s photo schedule, Mother had the kitchen purée my meals so chewing wouldn’t trigger my jaw pain. She couldn’t risk me losing my composure at dinner.

I tasted the soup. It stung my tongue, but nothing stabbed from my ear to my gums. Tears splashed into the bowl.

Lucia put the pan down. “Honey, are those assholes from last night messaging you again? I’ll get your dad. We’re going to the police.”

I caught her apron and shook my head. “I just… really like it, Mom.”

She glanced at the soup, then rested a hand on my head and pulled me close. “Have some more, sweetheart. Nobody’s taking it away.”

After my third facial surgery, I’d cried, too. Mother had sat beside my bed with questions for a foundation interview. “The foundation’s donors will see this interview. Your father needs us looking like a happy family. The surgeon says you can wear makeup tomorrow. Don’t waste everyone’s investment.”

Whenever I mentioned the pain, she reminded me what my face had cost. If I couldn’t speak, I was deliberately holding up the interview.

Lucia postponed a whole day’s orders because I’d cried over a bowl of soup.

The tablet lit up again. Mara lounged in my dressing room, a silver-fox stole around her shoulders and opened boxes at her feet.

[Your mother let me choose something for my date with Adrian. I picked this.]

She pinned the emerald brooch to her collar and turned toward the mirror, showing off my flawless face.

[He sent a Maserati. Get used to it. I won’t always have time to worry about your feelings.]

Her smile widened, then one corner of her mouth twitched.

At seventeen, I hadn’t had the jawline Mother wanted. She’d signed the surgical consent forms. Two corrective procedures hadn’t fixed the nerve damage. Cold air, hot drinks, an unexpected laugh—any of them could bring me to my knees. I’d practiced those perfect little smiles with a timer, learning exactly how far I could push.

I didn’t warn her. Lucia slid the toast closer, and I bit through the crust without first calculating how much pain I could stand.