Giorgio's jaw tightened beneath the dim glow of the chandelier, but he did not argue. He never argued with his father. Not about this.
I sat to the side, hands folded in my lap, quiet to the point of ceasing to exist. A ghost at a table where only the living were permitted to speak.
When night descended upon the estate, the rain arrived without warning—a sudden violence against the windows, as though the sky itself had grown impatient with pretense.
"You'll catch your death." Giorgio moved almost instinctively, shrugging off his tailored jacket and draping it across Silvia's shoulders. The gesture was fluid, practiced—the kind of motion that spoke of repetition, of intimacy worn smooth by time.
She tilted her face toward him and smiled. Soft. Knowing.
The scene was so natural it turned my blood to ice water.
In that moment, I finally understood completely.
This was not a choice. Not a misunderstanding. Not something that could be corrected with patience or devotion.
I had simply never been permitted entry into his world.
I rose without farewell.