Mrs. Miller

Aitana stares at the photograph until her vision blurs. Alessia's face smiles up at her from the glossy paper, the emerald necklace glittering at her throat like a victory trophy. And on the back, in handwriting that looks like Pedri's, those four words: Soon, she'll be gone.

The lullaby has stopped. The nursery is silent. But Aitana's heart pounds so loudly she is sure the whole building can hear it.

She doesn't sleep that night.

At dawn, she showers, dresses in a simple grey coat, and walks out of the penthouse without waking Chloe. The city is just beginning to stir. Delivery trucks grumble at curbs. A street sweeper hisses past. The air smells like cold metal and exhaust.

She walks to Madison Avenue. She needs a simple repair on an old silver chain—a task so ordinary it almost feels like normal life. The bell chimes as she steps into the jewelry boutique. The air is thick with perfume and polished wood.

And then she sees her.

Alessia Russo stands by the main display case. She wears a white cashmere coat that drapes over her slender frame like water. White pearl earrings catch the light. A silk shawl, worth more than a thousand dollars, is looped casually around her neck. She looks like a woman who has never known coldness.

The salesperson, a thin man with an eager smile, glides toward her. "Mrs. Miller," he says, his voice dripping with deference, "is Mr. Miller not here today to pick out jewelry with you? We have new arrivals—sapphires, diamonds, emeralds. Each piece would suit you wonderfully, Mrs. Miller. The emerald necklace you asked me to reserve is right here. Try it on—I'm certain it will match your complexion beautifully."

He punctuates nearly every sentence with Mrs. Miller. Alessia doesn't correct him. She just smiles, a soft curve of her lips. The look in her eyes is quiet victory.

Then her gaze shifts. She notices Aitana standing frozen near the door.

Recognition flickers. Alessia knows exactly who Aitana is. Her smile grows, tinged with something sharp and pleased. She holds Aitana's gaze deliberately, then turns back to the salesperson.

"I'll try the emerald piece," she says, her voice honeyed. "Pedri does have exquisite taste."

The words slice between Aitana's ribs. The photograph in her pocket burns like a live coal. Soon, she'll be gone. She stands frozen, her heart slamming. The emerald necklace—the same one from the photograph—reserved under Pedri's name, paid for with his money. The injustice burns, but she refuses to show it.

She walks to the counter, heels clicking on marble. "I'm here for a clasp repair. A simple silver chain."

The salesperson glances between the two women, sensing the sudden cold. "Of course, madam. I'll be with you in just a moment."

Alessia's eyes drift over Aitana's plain coat, worn handbag, unpainted nails. No pity. Only satisfaction. She lifts the emerald necklace, holds it against her throat, and admires herself in the mirror. "Yes," she murmurs. "This will do perfectly."

Aitana completes her transaction mechanically. She turns to leave. Before she reaches the door, Alessia's voice floats after her, soft and casual.

"Take care, won't you? The weather's getting cold."

Aitana stops. Her hand is on the door handle. She should keep walking. She should not engage. But the photograph in her pocket, the words on its back, the years of silence and coldness—they all rise up inside her like a wave.

She turns.

"He's still married to me," she says quietly. "You can wear his necklace. You can let strangers call you Mrs. Miller. But at the end of the day, he comes home to me."

It is a lie. She knows it even as she says it. Pedri hasn't truly come home to her in years. But for one moment, she wants to wound Alessia the way Alessia has wounded her.

Alessia's smile doesn't waver. If anything, it sharpens. "Does he?" she asks softly. "When he comes home, does he hold you? Does he kiss you? Does he tell you he loves you?" She pauses, letting the silence stretch. "Or does he just walk past you like you're not even there?"

The words hit their target. Aitana feels the blood drain from her face.

Alessia steps closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know about the baby," she says. "The one you lost. Pedri told me everything. He said losing that child was the best thing that ever happened to him. It meant one less tie to you."

The room tilts. Aitana grips the door handle to keep from falling. The baby. Her baby. Pedri told Alessia about the baby? And he said—he said losing that child was the best thing?

No. Even Pedri, cold as he is, could not be that cruel.

Could he?

Alessia watches her, satisfied. She turns back to the mirror, adjusting the necklace. "Like I said," she murmurs. "Take care."

Aitana stumbles out into the cold street. The wind bites her face, but she barely feels it. Her chest is hollow. Her lungs refuse to expand. She hails a taxi with a shaking hand and gives the penthouse address.

In the back seat, she pulls out the photograph again. Alessia's smiling face. The emerald necklace. Soon, she'll be gone.

And e know if anything Pedri ever said was true.

But she knows this: she will not let Alessia win. She will not break in public. And she will not let Pedri rewrite the past.

Back at the penthouse, she goes straight to her study. She opens the bottom drawer and pulls out the divorce papers. They wait, blank and patient. She picks up a pen.

She signs the first page. Then the second. Her hand is steady.

But just as she reaches the final signature line, the study door swings open.

Pedri stands in the doorway, his eyes fixed on the papers in her hands. His expression is dark, thunderous.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Aitana doesn't look up. She presses the pen to the page and signs her name.

"I'm setting you free," she says. "You should be grateful."

She slides the papers across the desk toward him. Then she stands, walks past him, and heads for the bedroom.

She doesn't make it three steps before his hand closes around her wrist.

He spins her around, pulling her close. His face is inches from hers, his breath hot against her skin. His grip is iron.

"You think you can just walk away?" His voice is low, dangerous. "After everything?"

She meets his eyes without flinching. "Watch me."

For a long, charged moment, neither of them moves. The air between them crackles with something dark and electric. His eyes drop to her lips. Her breath catches.

Then his gaze falls to the photograph sticking out of her coat pocket. He freezes.

"Where did you get that?" His voice is suddenly sharp, almost panicked.

Aitana pulls the photograph free. She holds it up between them. "You dropped it. In the nursery. Last night."

Pedri's face goes pale. He releases her wrist and steps back, his eyes fixed on the photograph like it is a ghost.

"I can explain," he says.

"Explain what?" Aitana's voice is steady, but inside she is shaking. "Explain that you plan to leave me for her? That you told her about our baby? That you said losing that child was the best thing that ever happened to you?"

Pedri's eyes widen. "I never said that. I would never say that."

"Then why did she tell me you did?"

The question hangs between them. For the first time, Pedri looks uncertain. Confused. Almost human.

"Alessia told you that?" His voice is low, dangerous now. "When?"

"This morning. At the jewelry store. She was trying on the emerald necklace you bought her."

Pedri's jaw tightens. A muscle jumps in his temple. He looks away, then back at Aitana. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are burning.

"She's lying," he says quietly. "About the baby. About everything."

Aitana lets out a bitter laugh. "Why should I believe you? You've been lying to me for three years."

Pedri steps closer. His hand comes up, slow and deliberate, and cups her chin. His thumb brushes her lower lip, light as a whisper. The touch sends a shock through her body.

"Because I'm the only one who has never lied about how much I hate you," he says. "And yet, here you are. Still standing. Still fighting. Still..."

He trails off. His eyes drop to her lips. The air between them thickens.

"Still what?" she whispers.

His hand slides to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair. He pulls her close, his mouth hovering an inch from hers.

"Still the only woman I can't stop thinking about," he says. "And it's driving me insane."

Then he kisses her.

It is not gentle. It is not kind. It is hard and hungry and desperate, a collision of hate and longing that leaves no room for doubt. His hands are everywhere—in her hair, on her waist, pressing her against the wall. She should push him away. She should hate him. But instead, she fists her hands in his shirt and pulls him closer.

When they finally break apart, both of them are breathing hard. Pedri's forehead rests against hers. His eyes are closed.

"This changes nothing," he says, but his voice is shaking.

"Then why did you kiss me?"

He doesn't answer. He just releases her and walks toward the door. But then he stops, his hand on the handle. He does not turn around.

"One more thing," he says quietly. "I never wrote that note. The one on the photograph. Alessia must have planted it—she has access to my office. She's been trying to push you out for months. Don't let her win, Aitana."

Then he walks out, slamming the door behind him.

Aitana slides down the wall, her lips burning, her body trembling. The divorce papers lie scattered on the floor, unsigned.

She doesn't know what scares her more—the cancer eating her alive, or the realization that she still wants him.

And now she doesn't know what to believe. The photo. The note. The baby. Alessia's words. Pedri's denial.

The truth is slipping through her fingers like water.