Till Nuts Do Us Part
At the party for our first wedding anniversary, I hit the floor—face-first on a red carpet, gasping like a fish out of water.
Carlo Pipino, my husband, had his arm draped around Gianna Verde, his childhood flame, sipping champagne and laughing.
Gianna knew I was allergic to nuts. So, obviously, she bathed everything in hazelnut dressing.
One bite and boom—my throat locked, my lungs lit up, and hives popped like confetti.
I reached for my allergy meds—came up with a fistful of melted M&Ms instead.
Gianna laughed when she saw my face. "Surprise! Carlo swapped your meds. Seriously, Siena, one nut? Dramatic much?"
I slid off my chair, wheezing, while the crowd placed bets on how long my "performance" would last.
"Carlo... my meds..." I croaked. "Please. I'm gonna die."
He sighed, annoyed. "God, you're so dramatic. Why do women always play dead for attention? You know I love you. Just stop this show already."
Right then, my heart shattered faster than my lungs could.
I stopped begging. Hit the distress signal. Called my real family.