Burned Out of the Moretti Name

That night, a message from my mother came through.

We’ll see you next week.

I looked at the screen for a moment, then locked my phone.

Over the next several days, Bianca posted constantly on Instagram.

Lorenzo returned a week later.

By then, only three days remained.

I had assumed he would go straight to the estate office, but instead he came home first.

The evening before he returned, I saw her latest Instagram story.

She was standing in a hotel suite in a white slip, the bed unmade behind her, champagne open on the table. Across the photo, she had written:

My boyfriend says he’s buying me a ring at Christie’s. Maybe he’ll put it on my finger himself.

For one sick second, it wasn’t even the room that caught me.

It was the dark hair, the white dress, the deliberate echo of someone I used to be.

Of course she had posted it for me to see.

That was part of the game.

So I left her a single comment.

It’s exactly his taste.

A minute later, the story was gone.

When Lorenzo came through the door, he was already angry.

“Sofia,” he said, “I already explained what happened the other day. Bianca’s young. You don’t need to turn this into something it isn’t.”

I stilled, then understood at once.

So this was about the deleted story.

Sure enough, the look on his face darkened when he saw mine.

“She said she was lucky to have a man looking out for her, and you answered like that?” he said. “Was that really necessary?”

“You’re above this, Sofia. Don’t humiliate yourself over her.”

I pressed my lips together and said nothing.

I did not bother defending myself. If Bianca wanted to twist what had happened, let her.

Three more days.

That was all I needed.

Then my child and I would be beyond his reach.

When I didn’t argue the way I used to, some of the certainty left his face. His tone shifted, softer now, almost careful.

“This isn’t like you,” he said. “You’ve been off lately. Is it because you’re not feeling well?”

He set the insulated carrier on the dining table and opened it, pouring a bowl of broth before placing it in front of me.

“I had this brought over from the estate,” he said. “Eat.”

Then, after a pause, his voice lowered.

“I hate seeing you like this.”

I looked at the bowl without touching it.

His patience thinned almost instantly.

“Sofia, enough,” he said, irritation sharpening his voice. “Do I really have to stand here and coax you?”

Then, more coldly, “Bianca was left in my care by an old friend of the family before he died. Looking after her is hardly a crime. Don’t make this uglier than it needs to be.”

Looking after her.

That was one way to put it.

Lorenzo had always loved how little I asked of him.

A softer voice, a small kindness, and he expected everything to be forgiven.

Like now.

He had come home first. He had brought me something. In his mind, that should have settled it.

But I could not let him grow suspicious. In a few days, there would be a fire, and Sofia Moretti would be dead.

So I lowered my eyes and said, “It’s too hot. Leave it there. I’ll have it later.”

“There you are,” he said, gentler again. “I knew you’d come around.”

Not long after that, his phone rang.

I did not need to ask who it was.

Before he left, he bent and kissed my forehead.

Then, as if remembering, he added, “There’s a Christie’s auction tonight. I’ll bring you something back.”

After he left, I let out a quiet laugh.

Once, what we had was real.

He had loved me. Of that, I had never had any doubt.

He had simply found a way to give that love to someone else without admitting he had taken it from me first.

A betrayal did not become anything less just because he gave it a softer name.

But somehow, that was not the part that hurt most.

What hurt was knowing he still believed I would accept the insult—that Bianca meant something only because she echoed the woman I had once been.