A Wife For Nico Vescari
I’d asked, like I wasn’t already aware this conversation was veering somewhere dangerous.
She’d tilted her head, squinting at me like the question required effort.
“Because…” she’d started, dragging the word out.
Then she went quiet, taking a deep breath before continuing.
“No one’s ever really loved me,” she’d said eventually, her voice softer now, stripped of its bravado. “Not properly.”
I’d stayed still.
“My mum does,” she continued. “She loves me. But that’s just motherly love.” Her lips trembled, just barely. “And if my dad loved me, he wouldn’t have given up so easily. He wouldn’t have just… died.”
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