His Lost Little Lady

On the day Tristan Spallone, the head of a mafia family, and I mark our fifth wedding anniversary, the manager of the Spallone family vault calls.

Something that was stored away for a long time has finally come due, and Tristan is to retrieve it. He's so busy that he barely has a moment to breathe, so I go in his place.

What I bring back is an old roll of film. The manager warned me that if it wasn’t developed soon, its age might cause it to be ruined beyond recovery.

But when I have them developed, frame after frame is filled with Winnie Leigh, his first love. Her smile looks so sweet in those pictures that they nearly suffocate me.

What about me, one may ask? I never once appeared on his albums.

The office door slams open. Tristan bursts in, already out of breath. "Anna, is your life really so empty that you have to dig through mine?"

I turn toward him, the man who's usually so composed. I neither question him nor break down.

Instead, I speak slowly. "We're getting a divorce."

Tristan frowns and thrusts the stack of photos into the shredder. He then looks back at me. "They're gone. Do you still want a divorce?"

A bitter smile tugs at my lips. "Yes."

Impatience flickered in Tristan Spallone's eyes. He yanked at his tie, snapped open his cufflinks, treating me not like his wife but like an opponent he had to bring to heel.

His voice was low, heavy with that familiar pressure that always seemed to shrink me. "For a handful of old photos? Anna, don't start with me. I don't have time for this."

"I'm serious," I answered evenly, holding his gaze.

Tristan didn't bother with words any longer. He closed the distance between us in a few quick strides.

Towering over me, he caught my chin and tilted my face up to his. His scent and warmth, the same things that had once unraveled me, now wrapped around me like a snare.

"Alright, sweetheart. You've been wanting to get our wedding photos taken, haven't you? We'll go once I get through these next few days."

It was the same thing again. Every argument, every letdown, always dissolved into that empty promise, as if the words themselves carried a spell strong enough to mend every scar.

Tristan made that promise over and over again, yet not once had he kept it.

I knocked his hand aside and stepped back, forcing space between us.

"No. I don't want anything anymore," I said quietly.

The steady chill in my voice snuffed out the last flicker of warmth in his eyes.

"Anna, my patience has limits. Don't threaten me with a divorce. You won't be able to bear the cost."

Tristan's voice was soft, yet laced with a dangerous edge. He didn't add another word or even spare me another glance. He simply turned on his heel and walked away.

This time, I didn't chase him, didn't clutch at his sleeve, didn't sob and beg him to stay.

I just stood there, staring after him, until his footsteps grew fainter. The sting in my nose began to spread, sharp, hot, and unrelenting.

The photos had only just been developed, and already they lay in shreds. But the face on them was already carved into my memory.

So this was Winnie Leigh. She was beautiful.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from breaking into sobs, but the tears spilled anyway, rolling down my hand like beads from a broken necklace.

Time blurred. I couldn't tell how long I sat there, not until my eyes ran dry and the sobs finally stilled.

I sniffled, picked up my phone, and called my best friend, Lily Ludlow. She was a lawyer.

"Lily, help me draft a divorce agreement."

On the other end, she hesitated for a few seconds before speaking, her voice heavy with concern. "A divorce agreement? Anna, are you serious? You love Tristan. Why would you suddenly want to end it?"

"That woman's back. I suppose it's time I stepped aside," I murmured.

The line went still. Then, Lily whispered, "God… She's really back."

I hadn't spoken her name. Lily didn't need me to.

Winnie was Tristan's first love. I had never laid eyes on her, yet her name had sat in my heart like an invisible thorn for five long years.

That first winter night after Tristan and I were married was bitterly cold, yet he insisted on working late in the study.

I opened the door with a steaming cup of coffee in hand, and there he was, staring down at an old photograph. His fingers brushed over it with a tenderness so raw that it stole the breath from my chest.

At the sound of my footsteps, he shoved the photo deep into a pile of books, his face gone cold. "What are you doing here?"

I stopped dead in my tracks, my hands shaking. "Who is she?"

He held his silence for what felt like forever, as though torn between hiding and confessing. At last, he said in a low, detached voice, "Winnie Leigh."

That had been the first time I heard the name, and it became the nightmare I would never escape.

From then on, no matter how soft his words or how kind his gestures, the image of him staring at that photo in the study lingered in my mind. It held a tenderness he'd never once shown me.

Lily asked nothing more. In a careful voice, she promised to prepare the divorce agreement for me.

When I ended the call, I drew in a long breath. This time, I wouldn't foolishly wait for Tristan to open his heart to me.