“We got money, Doris,” he muttered. “You know that. But I’m not wasting it on some useless help. You’re here. You got two hands. Why the hell would I hire a maid when you’re the woman of the house?”
The woman of the house. That was whatever he called me.
But I didn’t own anything. Not a car. Not a card.
Every cent I needed, I had to beg for. And if I asked for more? He’d demand an itemized receipt. Penny by penny.
---
That night, when the noise died down and the family disappeared into their rooms, I walked to the bedroom, pulled out the old red suitcase from the closet. The one he bought me in Naples before our wedding.
Before the world twisted into what it is now.
I looked down at my hands. They didn’t look like mine anymore. Lined. Broken. Tired.
I used to be someone. A Rossini. The daughter of a mafia king. The girl born with gold on her tongue and fire in her spine. But I gave that up for love. I disowned myself from my family, thinking Edmund’s love was enough.
And now?
Now I was just the ghost in the house.
No kingdom. No crown. I have enough already. Maybe, leaving this family is the best birthday I could give to myself.
The next morning…