Vivienne sipped her coffee, all cheer and venom. “Don’t worry, Bianca. I’ll leave some of my old dresses in your closet. A little tight on me now, but I think you’ll fit.”
Marcello chuckled, not even looking my way. “You can dress a corpse in Versace—it’s still a corpse. Still smells like disappointment.”
Chiara screamed in laughter. The twins clapped like it was a roast battle.
And me? I washed their dirty dishes, one by one. Staring out at the neighbor’s lemon tree, blooming.
They think this is the end. They haven’t seen what I look like when I stop begging to belong.
---
That night, when the house quieted, the laughter gone, wine drained, I crept into the living room.
There it was again. The portrait. Massive, hung center stage in the sala like a crown jewel. Antonio had staged it with dramatic flair, right above the console table. Impossible to miss. Guests would pause, admire, whisper, “What a happy family.”
A lie. All of it.
I didn’t notice Marcello enter until he was behind me.
“Jealous again?” His voice roughened with boredom. “You stare at it like it’ll cry for you.”
I didn’t answer. There was no point.