Giana

A soft chime from the foyer announced his arrival.

Franco swept in, carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses. He was in a custom-tailored suit, his smile perfectly white, perfectly practiced.

"Gia, my love," he murmured, his voice polished, gentle. A tone that used to make my knees weak. Now, it just made my stomach churn.

"You won't believe the meeting I just had with the Commission. They're eating out of the palm of my hand."

He placed the roses on the marble counter and came towards me, his eyes scanning the room before landing on my face. He leaned in to kiss me.

I turned my head slightly, letting his lips brush my cheek.

He didn't notice my withdrawal.

"That's wonderful," I said, my voice flat.

"It's magnificent, Gia. This is our future." He took my hand. "This wedding is going to be the event of the decade. The Boss is pleased."

I looked into his eyes. They were brown. Empty of anything real.

"Franco," I asked, studying his face for a crack. "Do you really mean the vows we're about to make?"

He blinked. A flicker of annoyance, then his composure returned. "Gia, why are you being so dramatic? Of course. You are my life."

"Am I?"

"You're just stressed," he waved a dismissive hand. "Come on, I have a surprise. The jeweler called."

The drive to the Diamond District was in the Maserati. One hand on the wheel, the other on my thigh. It took every ounce of strength not to push it away.

The family-owned jewelry store was a fortress in the Diamond District. We were led to a private viewing room.

The jeweler emerged with a velvet box.

"Mr. Moretti, Miss Vitielo," he bowed slightly. "As requested. A custom design."

He opened the box.

Inside lay a pink diamond, surrounded by a halo of smaller white diamonds. It was gaudy. Ostentatious. Everything I hated. But Franco insisted he knew my taste.

"A pink diamond," Franco announced, puffing up his chest. "One of a kind. Just like you, Gia. I told them, 'Find me a stone no other woman in New York has.'"

He picked up the ring and slid it onto my finger.

It felt cold. Heavy. Like a shackle.

"It symbolizes the unique bond between us," he said, looking at me expectantly.

Tears pricked my eyes.

Not from joy. From the sheer pathetic tragedy of it all. That I'd ever been fooled by his hollow gestures.

Franco's face broke into a wide grin, a smug satisfaction settling over his features. "I knew you'd be moved."

He reached out and wiped the tear from my cheek, mistaking my rage for joy.

He didn't know that two hours ago, I'd checked Camilla's private Instagram. She'd posted a photo of her manicured hand gripping a steering wheel.

On her finger was a pink diamond, surrounded by a halo of smaller white diamonds.

The caption read: He said our love was tailor-made. Just for me.

In the background of the photo, blurred but unmistakable, was the jeweler's receipt.

Two rings. Quantity: 2.

He hadn't just cheated on me. He'd mass-produced our engagement. Bought us matching outfits like we were livestock he was branding.

I looked down at the ring, and felt only nausea.

"It's beautiful, Franco," I whispered, fighting the urge to vomit. "Truly... unforgettable."

Giana

Back at the penthouse, Franco wrapped his arms around me from behind.

"I know you're stressed," he murmured against my neck. "But you need to relax. Why don't you write something? Your fans are waiting for an update."

He released me and walked to the kitchen to fix himself a drink.

I pulled the ring from my finger.

I threw it in the junk drawer.

Franco didn't hear.

I sat at my laptop and logged into my author account.

My book, Smoke and Mirrors, was a thriller about a woman who marries a spy.

The comments section on my reader forum buzzed.

Update soon!

Is the husband actually the villain?

I opened a new document. My fingers flew over the keyboard. I didn't need to invent scenarios. I just had to transcribe my memories.

Chapter Fifty-Six: The protagonist finds the second receipt. She realizes the man sleeping beside her is a stranger. She doesn't scream. She just sharpens her knife.

I paused and opened a separate, secure file.

I wasn't just writing fiction. I was compiling evidence. I started printing photos of the duplicate receipt, the side-by-side photos of the rings.

"What's that?" Franco asked, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

I spun the chair, blocking his view of the file, grabbing the papers from the tray.

"Research," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "For the new book. Tax documents, property deeds. Boring stuff."

I forced a smile.

Little did he know, I was saving the stage for the wedding.

He grunted, utterly disinterested. He didn't even ask the title, let alone glance at a page.

"Good. Everyone loves a happy ending." He glanced at his watch and downed his drink in a practiced move. "Get dressed. Xavier's throwing a party at The Vault. Neutral ground. We have to show face."

I sealed the documents in a thick manila envelope, addressed to a journalist, and hid it at the very bottom of my closet.

The Vault was an upscale club where families mingled under a fragile peace.

I put on a black dress.

When we arrived, the music was deafening.

Xavier, Franco's best friend and fellow soldier, waved us over to a VIP booth bathed in dim purple light.

"To the happy couple!" Xavier boomed, raising his glass.

The other soldiers cheered. I forced a smile and raised a glass of water to my lips, the liquid cold and tasteless.

Then I saw her.

Camilla.

She was dressed as a cocktail waitress, but her skirt was too short, her shirt buttons undone too low.

She carried a tray of drinks.

She wasn't supposed to be here. So this wasn't an accident. He'd planted her here. A deliberate provocation.

She reached the table, her eyes locked on Franco. Her hand was visibly shaking.

The crash was sharp, cutting through the bass. Wine splashed onto Xavier's expensive Italian loafers.

"You idiot!" One of the soldiers jumped up, yelling. "Watch what you're doing!"

"I'm so sorry!" Camilla cried, shrinking back, a practiced look of terror on her face. "I slipped!"

"Get her out of here," Xavier snapped, wiping his shoes. "Make her pay for the damage."

Franco slammed his hand on the table. The sound was louder than the subwoofer.

"Enough!" Franco's voice was sharp, his face flushed.

The table went silent. You don't defend the help. There's no kindness in the mafia world. Even if you're a made man.

"She made a mistake," Franco said, his voice tight. "Leave her alone."

Camilla looked at him, eyes wide, tears welling. "Thank you, sir."

Xavier looked from Franco to me, confused. "Franco, relax. She's just a waitress."

"Then let her show some remorse," another soldier sneered, his eyes glinting with drunken malice. "Go on, sweetheart. Give the man you almost soaked a hug. Let him know you're sorry."

It was a setup. Everyone at the table could see it.

Camilla hesitated, then looked at Franco. She took a step towards him, swayed, and dramatically pressed a hand to her forehead.

"I... I feel dizzy," she whispered.

Before I could blink, Franco moved. He stood up, snatched my glass of water from my hand, and turned to her.

"She's allergic to smoke," he announced to the table, the lie so flimsy it was an insult to my intelligence.

He put his arm around her waist, steadying her. In front of everyone. In front of me.

"I've got you," he murmured, meant for her, but loud enough for me to hear.

He held her there, one hand possessively on her hip, while the rest of the table stared, stunned into silence.

He wasn't helping a stranger. He was staking a claim.

My hand tightened on the strap of my clutch, the thin chain biting into my skin.

Not here, I told myself. Not now.

The wedding is your stage. The world is your audience.

Wait. Be patient. Let him be the biggest fool. Then make him pay.

From heaven, to hell.

Giana

The silence at the table was thick enough to choke on, heavy with the scent of stale cigar smoke.

Franco's hand remained on Camilla's waist. His thumb moved in a familiar stroke against the thin fabric of her uniform.

It was muscle memory. Intimate. Unthinking. Devastating. He wasn't even aware he was doing it.

I stood up. The legs of my chair scraped against the floor with a harsh screech.

"Gia?" Franco looked up, blinking as if waking from a daze.

He pulled his hand away from Camilla.

"I'm going to the restroom," I said, my voice low and even.

I didn't wait for his response. I just turned and walked away.

I pushed open the door to the ladies' room. It was empty. I gripped the edge of the cold porcelain sink and stared at myself in the mirror.

Stay calm. Don't let him win.

The door opened.

Camilla walked in. She wasn't crying anymore.

She moved with a loose, clumsy gait, taking up more space than necessary. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it, arms crossed over her chest.

"Oops," she said, a smirk playing on her lips. "Did I ruin your date night?"

I turned to face her, unhurried. "Camilla. You're playing with fire."

"You're a blind fool," she retorted, a certain venom in her voice. "He doesn't want you. He wants your last name. He tells me everything. Tells me how boring you are. Tells me he has to think about me to finish."

"If he wanted you," I said quietly, "you wouldn't be serving drinks while I'm wearing his ring."

Rage flickered in her eyes, twisting her features. "That ring is a copy! I have the real one!"

"I know," I said.

A flicker of disbelief crossed her face.

Before she could speak, the door handle rattled. Then a heavy knock shook the frame.

"Gia?" It was Franco.

Camilla's eyes lit up. She let out a calculated shriek.

"Get away from me!" she screamed, throwing herself heavily onto the tile floor.

She landed on her own ankle, twisting it with purpose.

Franco kicked the door open. The lock splintered, the door swinging inward.

He stormed in, his eyes wild with panic. He saw me standing by the sinks, arms at my sides, face expressionless. He saw Camilla on the floor, clutching her leg, sobbing.

"She pushed me!" Camilla wailed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She cornered me and pushed me!"

Franco looked at me. There was no question in his eyes. Just assessment.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded.

"Franco, look at her," I said calmly. "She's acting."

"She's hurt!" He knelt beside Camilla, examining her ankle. It was red and already starting to swell. "Just because you're a Vitielo, you think you can push people around? You think you're above the law?"

He looked up at me, disgust in his eyes.

I was stunned by his stupidity.

The law? From a mafioso?

And I'd never seen it before.

"Gia, you're a spoiled princess. You've never had a real day of hardship in your life. This girl works for a living, and you assault her because of a little jealousy?"

"Jealous?" I laughed. "Of what?"

Of her getting Franco's worthless love?

"She's the victim here!" Franco shouted. He scooped Camilla up in his arms, cradling her like a bride.

She buried her face in his neck, hiding the smile on her lips.

"I'm taking her to the hospital," he spat at me. "Find your own way home."

He walked out. He walked out of the club carrying his mistress, past his friends, past my associates, leaving his fiancée alone in a bathroom with a broken lock.

Five minutes later, I walked out of the club. Xavier tried to stop me.

"Gia, wait, he's just... he's emotional," Xavier stammered.

"He's dead to me," I said.

I took a cab home.

I walked into the penthouse and went straight to the living room.

On the wall hung a calligraphy scroll Franco had made for our third anniversary. It read: Forever.

I tore it off the wall. I ripped it in half. Then into quarters.

I went to the closet and pulled out every bag, every pair of shoes, every piece of jewelry he'd ever given me. I piled them in the middle of the living room floor like an offering to the ghost of what he'd made me.

I picked up the heavy kitchen scissors and started cutting. The blades sliced through soft leather, tore through silk fabric, shredded velvet.

Three hours later, when Franco came home, the apartment was dark.

He tried the bedroom door. Locked.

"Gia?" he called.

"Gia, open up. The doctor said she's fine. I just... I overreacted." He was realizing, apparently, that he still needed me until the wedding.

I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Gia, please. If you don't let me in, I'll sleep in the hallway."

I didn't answer.

Let him sleep on the floor. It's where dogs belong.