Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I lie back on the bed, the soft sheets cool against my bare legs, and stare up at the smooth white ceiling as I swipe to answer.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice normal, like nothing inside me just twisted.
Fabiola launches straight into it, her words bright and quick but carrying that familiar undercurrent of tension I know too well. “Viola, hi. How are things? Married life treating you okay?”
I keep my answer short the way I’ve learned to do when I don’t want to let anyone in too deep. “It’s fine.” My fingers trace the edge of the duvet, smoothing an invisible wrinkle. “He’s good to me.”
There is a pause on her end. I can almost picture her, biting the inside of her cheek, eyes darting like she’s searching for the right way to say whatever comes next.
Then she sighs heavily like she’s been carrying this for days. “Dad needs help, Vee. I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s really bad this time. He was beaten up a few days ago and—”
I cut her off, sitting up a little straighter against the headboard, the movement sharp enough that the sheets slip down my thighs. “What? I married that old bastard to clear his debts. Don’t tell me he’s been gambling again.”
The silence stretches uncomfortably between us. I can almost see her on the other end of the line. Lips pressed tight.
“He racked up new ones,” she finally admits, her voice small and hesitant, almost apologetic.
I close my eyes, a familiar wave of exhaustion settling over me, pressing down on my shoulders like an old, unwelcome weight I thought I’d finally shaken off. The same damn cycle. Always the same damn cycle.
“Vee,” she starts again, softer now, almost pleading, “family is family. We have to help each other out.”
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. There’s no humor in it at all. Just a sharp, tired edge that scrapes against my throat. “Salvatore left me with nothing. That’s why I had to marry Ricci so quickly. I have no money. You know this.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don’t soften it. I can’t. “So tell me — where exactly do I get the money from? I have nothing. Let everyone fend for themselves.”
The words hang there between us. Fabiola tries to push back, her voice rising, trying to guilt me with all the usual lines about blood and loyalty, but I’m already done. I can feel the old resentment bubbling up, twisting everything that felt light and hopeful this morning into something dark and depressing. Will I never be free of my father’s debts?
I end the call without saying goodbye, my thumb pressing the red button hard. The phone goes silent in my hand.
I lie there staring at the ceiling again, the smooth white surface blurring slightly when I blink. The conversation sits heavy in my stomach, twisting, turning, souring everything. I try to shake it off while I finish my coffee at the kitchen island, the warm mug cupped between my palms, but it lingers stubbornly.
Truth is, I feel guilty. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Years of brainwashing can’t be turned off at the drop of a hat. A child should always help its parents no matter what. That is the duty of a child.
Eventually, during my solitary breakfast of yogurt and fresh berries at the marble island, I decide I need something that’s just for me. Something that feels like mine again. I pull out my laptop and start searching for pottery classes nearby. One studio catches my eye almost immediately. It’s not too far from the penthouse, and it’s small and intimate-looking, with morning sessions that would fit perfectly into my days. My pulse picks up with a little spark of genuine excitement I haven’t felt in years. It feels warm and bright against the heaviness still sitting in my chest.
I finish breakfast quickly, rinse my bowl in the sink, and head out, grabbing a light jacket on the way. The city air is crisp and cool against my skin as I step into the private elevator, the doors closing with a soft whoosh. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m moving toward something I actually want.
And that feels good. Really good.
Chapter Forty-Seven
VIOLA
The studio door swings shut behind me with a soft, heavy click. The cool earthy smell of wet clay wraps around me.
My stomach does a nervous little flip. Ridiculous. A grown woman fidgeting like it’s my first day of school. The space is intimate, with high windows letting in that soft late-morning light that turns everything golden and dusty. Shelves line the walls, crowded with pieces in every stage — some still rough and gray, others smooth and gleaming with glaze. The low hum of wheels spinning somewhere in the back mixes with quiet conversation and the occasional splash of water. It feels… chaotic. Real. Nothing like the cold, perfect rooms I used to drift through.