The Omega He Was Cursed to Lose

Almost at the same moment, Sophia Rossi posted a photo on Instagram.

In it, two hands were clasped together. The man's hand wore the black-and-gold Moretti signet ring. On the woman's ring finger was a diamond band. Framed by the shape of their interlocked hands were a seven-week ultrasound and a freshly stamped marriage certificate.

The caption was only one sentence:

[He said he'd give us a home.]

The comments exploded almost instantly.

"Finally happened, Mrs. Moretti."

"See you tomorrow. Got your wedding gift ready."

"You two were always meant to end up together."

Not one person mentioned me.

As if the woman standing in the church tomorrow had never been meant to be me at all.

I looked at the picture and, to my own surprise, smiled. Then I tapped the heart, left a comment, and wrote:

[Wishing you a lifetime of happiness.]

It disappeared in under ten seconds.

Right after that, Luca called.

The second I answered, I heard the edge in his voice. "Evelyn, what the hell are you doing?"

I leaned against one of the stone columns outside the cathedral and listened to rain hammer the steps below. "What do you mean?"

"You leave a comment like that under her post on purpose, and now you want everyone laughing at her?"

I went quiet for a beat.

"I genuinely wish you both a lifetime of happiness."

He let out a short, cold laugh. "You think I don't know when you're being fake? Everybody knows you're supposed to be the bride tomorrow. And you choose tonight of all nights to say that under Sophia's post? What else is that supposed to look like except you trying to make people think she stole your place?"

I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. "Didn't she?"

That shut him up for half a second. Then he lowered his voice, impatient and hard. "I already explained this. The City Hall certificate was just to shield her from some bad publicity. The wedding stays the same. The church stays the same. The vows stay the same. Tomorrow, you're still the one in the dress. So what exactly are you still making a scene about?"

My grip tightened on my phone until my fingers turned white.

He had already married another woman, and he still had the nerve to tell me the wedding was going on as planned.

To him, a marriage license meant nothing. My dignity meant even less.

Then I heard it -- a woman crying softly on the other end.

"Luca, don't blame Evelyn..." Sophia's voice trembled just enough to sound fragile. "This is my fault. I shouldn't have asked you for help. If she's upset, I can leave New York. I can raise the baby on my own..."

Luca's tone softened at once, like he was soothing some frightened little thing. "Don't cry. The doctor said you can't get worked up right now. You and the baby are going to be fine."

Then his voice snapped back into something colder when he spoke to me again.

"Evelyn, apologize to her."

For a second, I thought I'd misheard him.

"Apologize?"

"Yes." He said it like he was issuing the most ordinary instruction in the world. "She's emotionally unstable right now. You know she's pregnant, and you still chose to upset her. Apologize, and this ends here."

All at once, I remembered too many nights from the past eight years.

Nights in that damp basement apartment in Brooklyn, when he would come home smelling like gun oil and cigarettes, drop his head against my shoulder, and murmur, "Just wait a little longer. Once I clean up the mess in the Moretti family, I'll give you a wedding all of New York will remember."

I waited for eight years.

I waited while he clawed his way up from a disregarded man on the edge of the Moretti family, someone their inner circle barely looked at twice, into the heir they finally had no choice but to acknowledge, stepping in and out of black Cadillac Escalades in tailored suits.

And I waited long enough to watch him slip another ring onto somebody else's hand first.

"Luca," I said softly, "I'm not apologizing."

His voice turned glacial. "Evelyn, don't be ungrateful."

"The ungrateful one is you."

Then I hung up.

Two seconds later, another message came through.

[The wedding starts on schedule tomorrow. Don't be late.]

I looked at the screen and almost laughed.

That wasn't a message to a fiancee. It was a scheduling note to an event coordinator.

I locked my phone, stepped back into the rain, and walked away.