Later that night, I heard footsteps outside—uneven, heavy.
I opened the door slightly.
Vincenzo was there, drunk, leaning into Lena as she held him upright. Her arm wrapped around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You sure you don’t want to check on her?” she murmured, brushing his face gently. “It’s late. She might still be awake.”
Vincenzo laughed under his breath.
“Why would I?” he said. “She acted like trash toward Noel.”
Lena guided him away without hesitation, toward her room. The door didn’t even close properly.
I heard everything.
I didn’t move. I didn’t cry. I just sat there, staring at nothing, like my body had already given up on reacting.
**
In the morning, I did what I always did.
I made hangover soup.
The kitchen smelled warm, like routine, like nothing had changed—even though everything had. Vincenzo came in later, rubbing his temple, avoiding my eyes.
“I got home late,” he said casually. “Didn’t want to wake you, so I stayed in the guest room.”
“Okay,” I replied.
He relaxed a little. Like everything was normal again. Like I was still the same wife who stayed quiet, who accepted everything without question.
Then I slid the papers across the table.