Chapter 3
1183words
"Where's your blue diamond ring?" Alessandro's voice cuts through the silence, carrying that dangerous edge I know all too well.
My fingers freeze mid-twist. That fifteen-carat blue diamond is now sitting in a safe deposit box at a Paris bank, waiting to accompany me to my new life in three days.
"In my jewelry box," I keep my voice casual. "It doesn't match today's outfit."
"Doesn't match?" He turns, his steel-gray eyes boring into mine. "That ring was personally selected by my mother, and at her birthday celebration, you tell me it doesn't match?"
The temperature in the car plummets. Antonio, the driver, grips the steering wheel tighter, eyes locked on the road ahead. He knows better than to have ears when the boss is angry.
"Alessandro, I just thought—"
"You thought what?" His voice stays dangerously quiet, each word a hammer blow. "You thought you could just ignore Moretti family traditions? That ring represents your position in this family—it's my mother's acceptance of you!"
I study his flushed face, suddenly understanding this isn't about a ring at all. It's about control, about obedience, about my place in his world.
"I'll remember," I say softly. "I'll wear it next time."
"No next time," he sneers. "You'll go back and get it tonight. Tell everyone you forgot it, and apologize in front of the entire family."
My nails dig into my palms. Three days. Just three more days of this hell.
"Of course, darling."
The phone's vibration breaks the suffocating silence. Alessandro glances at the screen, his anger instantly melting into the gentlest smile I've ever seen him wear.
"Just spam," he says casually, but his fingers caress the screen with unmistakable tenderness.
I nearly laugh out loud. Spam. The exact excuse I used to brush off Anna's messages last night. Seems my husband and I are perfectly in sync—when it comes to lying.
"So much spam these days," I say lightly. "You've been getting a lot too?"
"Mm-hmm," he replies without looking up, thumbs tapping a response, unable to hide his smile. "Scammers are getting creative these days."
I stare out at the Chicago skyline sliding past, imagining how it will feel three days from now, watching this city shrink beneath an airplane window. By then, all these lies and betrayals will be nothing but specks of dust beneath my feet.
The car turns onto Oak Avenue, and in the distance, the wrought iron gates of Isabella's Estate come into view. Gothic spires cast long shadows in the sunset, like monsters waiting to devour us.
The gatekeeper recognizes our plates, and the gates slide open without a sound. Meticulously trimmed rose bushes line the gravel driveway, their blood-red blooms eerily beautiful in the fading light.
"Remember," Alessandro says as the car stops, "you'll explain about the ring."
"I understand."
We walk toward the main entrance, my heels clicking sharply against marble. Francesco the butler waits at the door, his weathered face set in its professional smile.
"Young master, young madam, the lady awaits you in the living room."
We enter the hall where a massive crystal chandelier casts golden light across the space. Portraits of Moretti patriarchs line the walls, their painted eyes following our every move.
Silvery laughter drifts from the living room. A woman's laughter. Not Isabella's deeper tones.
My steps falter.
"Mom, we're here." Alessandro strides into the living room, his voice carrying that special warmth he reserves only for his mother.
I follow behind him and freeze at the scene before me.
Isabella sits in her Louis XIV armchair, silver hair in an exquisite bun, draped in deep blue silk. But sitting across from her on the sofa is none other than Jessica.
The stripper who should be working a pole is wearing an elegant black dress, chatting and laughing with the Moretti matriarch like they're old friends.
What hits me harder is Little Marco—the seven-year-old son of my deceased brother-in-law Luca, whom I've raised since infancy—curled comfortably in Jessica's lap, his small fingers playing with her necklace.
"Irina, you're here." Isabella's voice cuts like winter wind. "Jessica was just asking about you."
Jessica stands, flashing a perfect smile. "Mrs. Moretti, lovely to see you again."
Again? When had we met before?
"Jessica," I fight to keep my voice level, "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Alessandro invited me," her eyes gleam with triumph. "He said Lady Isabella wanted to meet me."
I turn to Alessandro, who's suddenly fascinated with adjusting his cufflinks, as if this entire scene has nothing to do with him.
"Marco," I extend my hand toward the boy, "come to Auntie Irina."
Marco looks at me, then at Jessica, before shaking his head and clinging tighter to her waist.
"Aunt Jessica says you're a bad woman," he announces with that brutal honesty only children possess. "She says you make Uncle Alex sad."
A heavy silence blankets the room, broken only by the soft pop and hiss of burning logs in the fireplace.
Isabella sets down her teacup with a delicate clink. "Irina, look at yourself. You can't even win over a child, yet you hope to secure your position in this family?"
Heat floods my face. This isn't coincidence; it's carefully orchestrated humiliation. They've weaponized a seven-year-old child against me.
"Miss Jessica," I struggle to keep my voice steady, "please don't poison a child's mind with your ideas."
"Oh, I'm just being honest," Jessica chuckles, stroking Marco's hair. "Children have the best instincts, don't they?"
"Enough!" I snap, unable to contain myself any longer. "What right do you have to influence a Moretti child?"
"Irina!" Isabella rises sharply, her commanding voice filling the room. "Watch your tongue! Jessica is my guest, and as the lady of this house, you should show proper breeding and grace."
Lady of the house? Grace? Looking at this tableau, everything suddenly clicks into place.
Just then, I catch Alessandro and Jessica exchanging glances—his filled with helplessness and apology, but mostly acquiescence. Hers blazing with triumphant defiance.
The truth hits me like a physical blow.
This is no accident or coincidence. It's a meticulously orchestrated power play. My mother-in-law knows everything. She not only knows about her son's affair—she's directing this entire humiliation.
Isabella sits back down, elegantly arranging her skirt. "Alessandro tells me Jessica has quite a talent for art. I thought we might sponsor her studies at an art academy."
"Lady Isabella is too generous," Jessica's voice drips with saccharine sweetness. "I'll never forget the Moretti family's kindness."
Forever? She already considers herself part of this family.
I stand frozen in the center of the room, surrounded by enemies. My husband's betrayal I'd expected, but my mother-in-law's cuts deeper than any knife.
"I need the bathroom." I barely manage to force out the words.
No one stops me. As I leave, conversation resumes behind me, as if my presence had always been an inconvenience.
