Her gaze slipped past me to Giorgio, as if seeking permission from the man who was supposed to be my betrothed. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible, but I caught it. I catalogued it. I filed it away with all the other evidence I had been gathering for months.
He stood there in the doorway, composed, even faintly appreciative as his eyes traced the lines of the gown against her body. "Don't make a scene," he said to me, his voice carrying the dismissive authority of a man who had already decided whose side he was on. "She's just having a bit of fun."
Then he looked at her, his tone softening in a way I had never heard directed at me. "What do you think, Silvia?"
She turned once more in front of the mirror, her smile growing bolder, more triumphant.
"It really does look good," Giorgio added quietly, stepping closer to her. "You've always been striking."
In that moment, every trace of hesitation vanished. Every doubt I had harbored about what I had seen, what I had suspected, what I had refused to believe—all of it crystallized into absolute certainty.
"Enough." I stepped forward and tore the gown from her hands.