I went to try on my wedding gown with Lorenzo—my fiancé, the Don of the Morretti family. My younger sister, Serafina, begged to come along.
I stepped out from behind the velvet curtain. There she was, pinning a brooch to his lapel.
I opened my mouth to say, “Let me do that,” but the photographer had already turned to her with a grin. “Newlyweds, look this way.”
They both turned. The camera clicked twice, and the photographer brushed past me.
Ninety-nine shots. Every single one of Serafina and Lorenzo. Not one of me—the actual bride.
I stood there, hollow.
When we were children, they always played bride and groom. I clapped on cue. When we grew up, they sat at the head of family councils; I made their coffee and kept the kitchen running.
“Vittoria, hand me the veil.”
Lorenzo saw I hadn’t moved, walked over, and gently pulled the tulle from my stiff fingers.
“Why are you standing there like that? Go check the seating chart with the butler. I’ll join you after we finish Serafina’s shots.”
The photographer lifted one eye from behind his camera. “Miss Vittoria, would you step back a little? You’re blocking the light.”
I stepped all the way back to the heavy drapes by the window.
And right there, it hit me—how absurd this all was.
If this political marriage didn’t actually need me, then I didn’t need to show up for it either.
I changed back into my own clothes, picked up my clutch from the armchair, and pushed open the heavy oak door.
The hinges groaned—low and long.
No one looked up.
I turned for a last glance. Serafina was angling herself before the mirror, and Lorenzo knelt behind her, lifting the train of her skirt. The photographer called out, “Don’t move—perfect angle.”
I turned and walked out the front gate.
Sliding into my car, my phone buzzed. A message from the wedding planner: Miss Vittoria, have you decided on the bouquet?
Before I could answer, another one popped up: Or Serafina could choose for you—she knows your taste and has great style.
The car was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat, counting something. Counting how many times I’d been erased in this arrangement.
I typed back: Let Serafina pick.
After all, Lorenzo always thought her taste was better.
A reply came instantly: Got it.
I stared at the screen. Probably relieved—no more back and forth with a wishy washy bride.
Then messages started rolling in. The photographer posted the fitting photos and floor plans in the family group chat. I opened the images: the lighting was masterful, shadows pooling around them like a Caravaggio painting.
I smiled bitterly.
As a child, I’d envied the girl who got to be the bride in their games. When Lorenzo and I got engaged, I thought I’d finally earned that role. I poured everything into this wedding, tiptoeing around it like it was proof I belonged.
But in the end, I was still cropped out of the frame.
The phone lit and dimmed, lit and dimmed. Messages kept coming. I didn’t reply. No one noticed.
I drove back to my city apartment. On the hall mirror hung a sticky note: Wedding countdown: 7 days. I peeled it off, crumpled it, and tossed it into the fireplace. Watched it curl, blacken, and turn to ash.
The next morning, I finally opened my phone.
99+ unread messages in the group.
Serafina had tagged me in one voice message: “Sister, I changed the processional music for you. Your pick was too gloomy—weddings are supposed to be happy!”
Lorenzo followed with a text: Yeah, the old one wasn’t quite right.
The old one? That Sicilian folk song my mother loved—the one I’d chosen since childhood, so she could be with me on my wedding day. Lorenzo knew. Serafina knew. They both thought it was too sad.
Serafina typed again: My sister’s kind of introverted about these things—we’ll handle it for her.
Lorenzo: Mm.
I stared at that single “Mm.” Messages kept flooding in.
No one noticed I hadn’t spoken.
I opened my private chat with Lorenzo. The last exchange was from yesterday, before the fitting. I’d said, “I’m nervous,” and he’d replied, “Don’t overthink. I’ve got it.”
Nothing after that. Not even a private question about my leaving early—just a brief @ in the group: “What’s wrong? Cold feet?” Then Serafina posted a photo of the gown she’d picked for me, and the conversation moved on.
I suddenly understood: I wasn’t just surplus. Surplus implies you once existed. I felt like I’d never been there at all.
While I was packing, Serafina video called me.
I answered. On her screen, someone was draping jewels around her neck.
“Sister, you’re so slow—you haven’t chosen the wedding jewelry yet, so I’m trying some on for you!”
I watched her preen in the mirror. I wanted to say: Two weeks ago, I told you I’d wear Mother’s set. Or: Did anyone ever ask what I wanted? But the words died.
I’d asked. I’d been unhappy. I’d stood my ground. But they always said: “You’re the eldest daughter of the Corleone family—you should be generous with your sister.”
Lorenzo, my fiancé, always took her side. When our families first arranged the match, he said he admired my quiet steadiness—that I’d be a perfect Don’s wife. But whenever Serafina was around, he’d pivot, saying the Don’s wife needed to be sparkling and ever present.
One time I said, “Could you not be so close to Serafina?”
He laughed and patted my hand. “She’s your sister. You want me to treat her like a stranger?”
I fell silent. Of course not. From childhood, I was told it was my duty as the elder to look after her. That burden had pressed on me for years, and for the first time, I couldn’t breathe.
They forgot I was only two years older.
I also wanted someone to ask, “Do you like this?”
A sliver of afternoon light fell across the oak floor. I remembered picking up scattered toys after every game, alone, while Lorenzo and Serafina ran off. No one ever helped. No one ever asked if I was tired.
I called my landlord and said I was moving out today.
He paused. “Really? You’ve been here four years.”
Four years—since Lorenzo and I got engaged. He’d wanted me to move into the Morretti estate, but Serafina said it was improper before the wedding. I agreed, keeping this place near his headquarters so we could see each other. He came sometimes. There were memories—good, bad, silent—and too many hurried exits.
“Yes, today,” I said. He sighed and told me to leave the keys in the mailbox.
Not long after, the door swung open. Lorenzo and Serafina walked in.
Serafina turned to him, laughing: “So the master suite with the terrace is mine, right? But I want to change the curtains to dark green velvet!”
I stood in the middle of the living room, wondering if I’d heard wrong. She spoke as if sharing our bridal suite was the most natural thing.
Lorenzo smiled indulgently. “As long as your sister’s fine with it.”
“Of course she is—she loves me.”
I opened my mouth. “What if I’m not fine with it?”
Two seconds of silence.
Serafina blinked—perhaps the first time I’d ever refused her. Before she spoke, her eyes reddened.
Lorenzo’s voice went hard. “Vittoria, what’s gotten into you? You’ve always given her everything—now you begrudge a room?”
“I’m not begrudging,” I said.
“Then what?” He frowned. “Serafina living with us—she’s family. Our suite is huge; it’ll be empty otherwise.”
“It’s our bridal suite,” I said. “If she moves in, is she the one marrying you?”
Lorenzo choked.
Serafina whispered, “Sister... I just wanted to be close to you. If you don’t want me, I won’t move.”
Lorenzo glanced at her. “Look what you’ve done. She’s a young woman, your sister—can’t you think of her feelings?”
“Who thinks of mine?” I lifted my head. “You’ve given her every opportunity, she wants for nothing. All I have left is—”
“Enough!” Lorenzo stepped forward. “Be reasonable. She’s your sister, and I only care for her because of you. Don’t be petty.”
Petty. I laughed and said nothing.
Serafina tugged his sleeve. “Lorenzo, stop—sister’s probably in a bad mood.”
He softened, patted her hand. “Vittoria, it’s settled. Serafina moving in is a good thing—you two won’t be apart.”
I nodded. Fine. That estate was their home anyway—I wouldn’t be living there.
Lorenzo exhaled. Serafina wiped her eyes and smiled at him.
I went back to packing.
Behind me, her voice floated: “So I really can change the curtains to green velvet?”
Lorenzo laughed: “Of course.”
That afternoon, I drove to the Morretti estate.
In my bag: his keys, his credit card, the clothes he’d left at my place.
The butler smiled. “Miss Vittoria, I’ll tell Don Lorenzo—”
“No need.” I handed him the bag. “Please give him this.”
I turned to leave. At the top of the stairs, I caught Lorenzo’s voice and slowed.
“Saturday—I’ll take you to test drive that new car?”
My fingers curled.
His laugh drifted through the half open door. “I know, I know—you want to go for a spin. I’ll make it work. Your sister—I’ll deal with her.”
I laughed bitterly. Even now, I still hoped.
We’d planned to finally take that trip to the Alps to see the first snow—something he’d promised three winters ago. We’d scheduled it for this Saturday. And now he was pushing it aside for Serafina.
I didn’t stay. I walked down the stairs and out.
I drove straight to the old family house in Tuscany.
The next day, while I was clearing out boxes, Mrs. Rossi, our old housekeeper, found me.
“Vittoria, take a rest.”
I shook my head, almost done.
She took my hand and patted it. “All these years... you’ve been a good sister.”
She sighed, as if turning over a long kept thought. “Serafina was adopted, but you treated her like blood—gave her everything. She always had a taste for taking what was yours...”
She wiped her eyes. “We all saw it, but we didn’t dare speak. But now you’re marrying a Don—you’ve made it.”
I smiled and didn’t answer.
After a moment, I said, “Mrs. Rossi, you should move into this house. It’ll fall apart without anyone in it.”
She blinked. “But you’ll come back—for holidays, visits.”
I said yes, but insisted she take it. She thought I was being polite.
I didn’t explain. I just thought: I don’t know when I’ll be back.
That evening, Lorenzo came to visit my uncle, the current Don of the Corleone family, as custom demanded before the wedding. Serafina trailed behind him, smiling.
When they saw me, both looked surprised.
“Vittoria—what are you doing here?”
His tone suggested I shouldn’t be there. But I was the bride—it was my own family home. Oh, right: he’d grown used to my absence; Serafina’s presence was enough.
Serafina looped her arm through mine. “Sister, perfect timing—Lorenzo came to pay respects, and I tagged along.”
I didn’t reply. Serafina hated this old house, rarely visited. But now she came willingly—for me, or for something else? It didn’t matter.
In the sitting room, my uncle exchanged pleasantries with Lorenzo. Serafina sat beside him, handing him cigars, chiming in. I might as well have been a chair.
I glanced at my phone. Lorenzo had texted: “I’ve been busy with wedding prep and neglected you. But why didn’t you tell me you were coming here?”
Neglect. Like I was the one out of line for wandering off.
He was always active in the group chat, rarely private messaging me. Never asked: “Have you eaten? What are you doing? Are you happy?” He didn’t know I’d been to his estate, or to my hometown. He didn’t know because he never asked.
I typed back two words: You’re busy.
At the end of the visit, my uncle stood to see them off. He reminded Lorenzo: “Per our family tradition, the couple can’t meet three days before the wedding. Don’t see Vittoria until then—for good luck.”
Lorenzo nodded.
My uncle turned to me: “Vittoria, go back with them now. After the wedding, you’ll return here for the family blessing.”
I wanted to say no, but his hopeful eyes made me swallow it.
I went to get my suitcase. When I came out to the courtyard, Lorenzo’s car was already gone.
I stood there for two seconds, then checked my phone. A message from Lorenzo: “Serafina wanted to see the wedding venue right away, so I took her first. Forgot you were there—get back on your own.”
Forgot. I laughed into the air. I wasn’t even worth remembering or waiting for.
I walked to the corner and hailed a cab. “The airport, please.”
In the back seat, I opened my camera roll to our engagement photo. I was in a cream dress, standing beside him. His hand was on my waist; his eyes held a warmth I’d once believed.
I stared at it for a long time. Then my thumb hovered over Delete, and I pressed it.
The wind blew through the window, making my eyes sting, but no tears came. All the years of retreat and hurt had accumulated until this moment—and now they felt weightless.
I deleted our entire chat history. Left the wedding group. The Tuscan fields scrolled past like the last fifteen years of my life receding.
I leaned back and closed my eyes. That’s it. I don’t want the title of Don’s wife. I don’t want Lorenzo.
