Another cremation. I went through it all again. This time, I left my father's ashes in a niche at the mausoleum.

When I returned to the Genovese estate, Salvatore wasn't back yet. The seven "flowers" buzzed around me, telling me Salvatore was furious, that I was finished.

I ignored them. They persisted, asking if I was really going through with the divorce.

I didn't answer. I just opened the door to my room.

"Take your pick. Everything in here is yours."

The words were barely out of my mouth before they swarmed in like vultures, stripping the room bare in minutes. All that was left were a few old love letters Salvatore and I had written to each other as teenagers, now trampled and ignored on the floor.

I locked myself in the empty room and stayed there.

Later, Salvatore sent a maid to check on me. I just had her deliver the divorce papers again.

"Divorce again. Is this the ninetieth time, Francesca? Aren't you tired of this game?"

Salvatore tore the papers to shreds.

"Cut her heat. When she's ready to be sensible, you can let her out."

Salvatore thought my threats of divorce were fake. He thought my claim of not loving him was fake.

But love can be exhausted.

Eight years. I couldn't love him anymore. I had loved him until I was unrecognizable, until I had nothing left. What was there to hold on to?

That night, I slipped out the back door and got into Domenico's car.

The next morning, Salvatore came downstairs and didn't see me bustling in the kitchen. There was no coffee, no croissants. His suit wasn't laid out, perfectly pressed.

He stormed upstairs and threw open my door, only to find the room completely empty. He spotted a crumpled letter on the floor, written in a familiar hand, and his own hands began to tremble.

"Maria! Where's Francesca?!"

The maid hurried over, a rag still in her hand. She glanced at the empty room and shook her head.

"I'll call her mother."

Maria stared at him. "Sir... isn't Francesca's mother... dead? The cremation was two days ago."

Salvatore's mind flashed back to the image of me clutching those photos. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. He bent down and picked up a trampled photograph from the floor. His pupils were wide, unfocused. It was as if all the life had been sucked out of him, leaving only an empty shell.

For eight years, it had never once occurred to him that Francesca would actually leave.