A live broadcast from the Luciana Hotel. Cameras sweeping over crystal chandeliers, the soft music of violins floating across the screen. There was Vivienne, draped in a fur shawl, Marcello by her side. My son and his wife smiled like seasoned politicians. Enzo and Nico, tiny tuxedos and soda cups in hand, looked like miniature guests of honor.
The reporter said: “A private Moroccan gathering—Vivienne’s grand homecoming. The family behind one of the nation’s largest shipping fortunes.”
I wasn’t there. Not in the frame. Not in the whispers. Not in the applause.
They toasted champagne. I sipped stale coffee.
Then the camera caught it—a single, unbearable moment. Vivienne leaned toward Marcello, whispered something. They laughed. My son laughed too. I didn’t hear the words, but I knew it was about me.
I felt it in my teeth.
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Hours passed. Just after midnight, the door opened again. I turned, foolishly hoping it might be my son. It wasn’t.
Vivienne’s heels clicked across the marble as she half-led, half-carried Marcello into the house. He swayed, drunk, tie loose, lips flushed from wine, eyes bleary and glassy.