“Oh, Bianca,” Vivienne said, spotting me by the staircase, like I were some ghost haunting her view. “Didn’t expect you to be awake.”
She guided Marcello down the hall, her arm looped through his, triumphant like a bride on her wedding day. “Antonio and the twins are at my penthouse. Too tired to come back. But Marcello… he doesn’t sleep well in strange beds. Poor thing.”
A lie. I knew it. She came only to shove the truth into my face.
“I told him not to worry,” she continued, voice sweet and mocking. “I’d bring him home. Take care of him. Isn’t that what family does?”
Then she reached into her tote and tossed a plastic container at my feet. It hit the floor with a dull thud.
“Leftovers,” she said with a smirk. “Go ahead, sister-in-law. You look like a sickly twig. Really ought to take better care of yourself. Bet you weigh thirty kilos at most.”
I didn’t move. My fingers curled into tight fists at my sides.
“I’ll put Marcello to bed,” she added, sly, venomous. “I know you two don’t share a room anymore. He told me. Said your side always smells like disappointment.”
One step. Just one. My hand twitched, itching to strike. Slapping her would have felt divine. But what would it change?