Valentina's Pov

Golden light covers the hills, casting long shadows over the olive trees surrounding the studio signalling the day was far gone. I gather my paintbrushes and head out of the studio.

"So fast?" asks James Williams, my newfound friend, with a warm sentiment in his voice.

"Yes. I'm done for the day."

"And you wanted to head out without biding me goodbye? Come on, I thought we are friends now?"

"I'm sorry. Didn't know time had gone by so fast hence my reason for rushing out."

"No need to fret, you're forgiven. By the way, I really liked your painting today."

"Coming from someone as skilled as you, I appreciate that."

"It's nothing. Goodbye, Vee," bid James.

"Bye James and it's Valentina." I correct gently trying not to sound rude.

"I like Vee better. A domani?" he inquires, prompting a smile to grace my lips—a rare occurrence.

"I see, the American boy is learning fast."

"What can I say? Learning the language of a country is the key that unlocks its culture's treasures. Plus I have a brilliant teacher." he says, gesturing to me.

"So?" he inquires further.

"Can't say, maybe, maybe not."

"Is there something I can do to get you down here tomorrow? I could book the whole studio for the day just for both of us."

"No, please. I'll try to make it to the studio tomorrow but I can't promise."

He thrusts his fist upward into the air, a spontaneous gesture conveying sheer enthusiasm and bids me a final goodbye.

As the evening wears on, I drive down the streets of Castellina back to what I jokingly call home, I can't help but wonder what drama awaits me this time. Despite having a cozy studio tucked away for my art, I find myself seeking the outdoors to paint. Whether it's the park or these charming open-air studios, they offer more than those walls ever could. 

Three years married to Marco feels like a lifetime of walking on eggshells. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of what appears to be love and compassion in his eyes, but it always flickers away in an instant. My efforts to please Marco Lorenzo and his family have been nothing short of futile. Time, emotions, every ounce of my being—offered up, yet met with disdain. Nothing I ever do seems good enough in their sights.

I had hoped Marco would stand by me, especially against his parents' criticisms. But it's always the opposite. He's so desperate for his father's approval that if Leonardo Lorenzo asked him to defy gravity, Marco would move heaven and earth to fulfil it.

Then there's Francesca Lorenzo, his mother—an arsenal aimed at me. I often feel she finds me utterly appalling as if my background taints me somehow. To Marco, I seem to serve merely as a decorative piece for magazines, a status symbol at gatherings, and a woman solely for providing warmth in his bed. Art remains my only refuge, my sanctuary amidst this chaos.

The weight on my shoulders stems from this constant need to blend in, to meet their expectations of the perfect wife. It's an isolating sensation, akin to being submerged in a sea of demands, unable to catch a breath. There's this lingering ache for recognition, to be seen and valued, despite their outward disdain.

I park my sleek black Alfa Romeo amidst an impressive collection of the world's most prestigious and stylish car brands in the garage. While I might adorn myself in the finest attire, wear expensive shoes and jewelry, drive the latest cars, and even reside in a castle of luxury, I could never wish this lifestyle upon my worst enemy. I'd prefer to find happiness in humble clothing than to wear designer labels and silently weep in seclusion. Love has taken on an unfamiliar meaning for me. Besides the love occasionally shown by my mother, I struggle to discern what genuine love truly entails.

Upon opening the door to the house, I'm met with my already-packed belongings and a sizable brown envelope that immediately captures attention from a significant distance.

Are we relocating? Why didn't Marco inform me earlier? Well, our communication has always been terrible, so I shouldn't be surprised. Wait, only my belongings are packed. Everything else seems untouched—the appliances and everything else are in place. Where are our wedding photos? What's going on?

"I see you're back from that place you disappear to, wasting precious time that you could use to do better things." Marco sneers, appearing with a glass of wine in his hand, exuding a mixture of disdain and disapproval.

It's funny how women desire to be with this 6'2" tall Italian man with brown hair, olive skin, a confident and alluring presence, timeless charm, and a robust bank account, unaware that this seemingly perfect man hides countless issues beneath his attractive exterior.

"Tesoro, I don't want to fight today please I'm tired. What are my bags doing down here?"

"From now it's Lorenzo to you or better still keep my name out of your mouth."

"Why would I call you Lorenzo? You are my husband."

"Read the room, considering you did attend school at some point," 

"What's inside the envelope?" I inquire, feeling a headache slowly creeping in.

"Why don't you take a look," he says, tossing the envelope in my direction.

As I cautiously unfold the papers from the envelope, my heart sinks as I'm met with the unexpected sight of divorce papers, a wave of emotions washing over me.

"Why Tesero?"

"Amore?" A familiar woman appears wearing Marco's shirt.

"Isabella Alessandro?" I stammer in surprise.

"Show some respect for the name," he warns, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"Why is it taking you so long to sign the papers?" she asks, leaning into his chest.

"This is not true. Tell me this is just my imagination playing tricks on me."

"Quit the drama," he says.

"Here is more than enough money that can change that wretched life of yours. It's the best I can do," she says, throwing a cheque in my face.

"Marco Lorenzo, look me in the eye and tell me you want this and I'll sign it immediately."

"Go on, tell her." Isabella beckons sensing his hesitation.

"I do not want to be in this shambles with you called a marriage."

My heart sinks hearing him say these words. I sign the papers and head out with one box.

"Are you leaving behind your other belongings?"

"You can have them. After all, you purchased them."

"I bought them for you. I have no use for them."

"If she leaves without them, that's her problem," Isabella remarks as she sits down on the couch.

"And the cheque?" he inquires.

"Tieni il tuo assegno!" I snap, slamming the door in their faces.