Erasing Mrs. Moretti

"A small burn," I said, my voice ice.

Dante's hand froze mid-air. His brown eyes, the ones I used to get lost in, flickered with suspicion.

But I wasn’t the naive music student I was five years ago. I had learned how to hold a perfect smile at a Moretti family dinner, how to survive with grace amidst blood and betrayal.

"I got you a gift," I said, picking up a beautiful blue box from the sofa and sliding it toward him.

The box was light. Inside was our wedding photo, cut into a thousand tiny pieces, each no bigger than a fingernail.

Dante took the box, a look of what I once would have called genuine surprise on his face. "What’s the occasion? Did I forget something?" He didn't open it, instead placing it on the coffee table and reaching out to touch my face.

I took a step back, my smile perfectly in place. "You really don't remember, Dante? It's our fifth wedding anniversary."

His expression froze, as if he'd been slapped. I saw the flicker of panic in his eyes, the guilt of a man caught in a lie but trying to play innocent.

"God, Alessia, I..." He reached for me. "Things with the family have been so crazy lately, I completely..."

"It's fine." I subtly pulled away, refusing to inhale the scent of another woman on him. "I understand."

"No, it's not." He grabbed my hand, his grip tight. "We have to celebrate. Let's go to the stables. Right now. You love it there. We can ride and watch the sunrise, just like we used to."

Used to? The last time we went riding together was three years ago. Back then, he would kiss the shell of my ear and tell me I was his queen. Now he couldn't even remember our anniversary.

But I nodded. "Okay. That sounds nice."

To ensure my escape, I had to keep playing the part of the clueless wife.

At four in the morning, Dante tried to manufacture romance as he drove, playing our wedding song—"La Vie en Rose."

"I'm so sorry I forgot, baby," he said, glancing at me. "You know how much I love you."

I didn't answer.

My hand brushed against the side compartment and felt a piece of fabric. A cheap, black lace thong fell out.

It wasn’t mine.

I pretended not to notice and pushed it back into place.

I had no interest in his meaningless excuses.

The sky was just beginning to lighten when we reached the stables.

We rode for about half an hour, with Dante trying his best to recreate the affection of the past. He’d sneak pictures of me as I rode by, loudly praise my form, and point out the sunrise with some cheesy romantic line.

One of the stable hands played along. "Mr. Moretti, you spoil the Mrs. rotten. Enough to make a man jealous!"

I said nothing.

Then his phone rang. A special ringtone.

"Sorry, baby. Gotta take this. Urgent family business." He gave me a quick peck on the forehead and trotted his horse to the other end of the paddock.

I quietly slipped back to the car, where Dante kept his burner phone.

The screen was lit up with a synced chat between him and "Kitten."

Kitten: I miss you, daddy… Can we try that new position you were talking about tomorrow night? With the new toy?

Dante: Of course. Looks like I didn’t wear you out enough last time.

Kitten: Don’t you like it when I’m insatiable? I’ll even wear that black lace set you love. I promise to make you happy.

Dante: I’m looking forward to the show.

More messages flooded the screen, filthy and detailed, planning their next rendezvous.

They had a date for tonight. The presidential suite at the Westin. He’d already ordered champagne and red roses.

When Dante returned, he slipped back into his role as the devoted husband.

"Couldn't see you for a second there, I was starting to panic," he said, riding up beside me and taking my hand. "Thought you'd left me."

My stomach churned.

Bile rose in my throat.

"Alessia? You okay?" Dante looked at me with concern. "You're pale."

I couldn't take it anymore. The dirty texts, the thong reeking of another woman, his hypocritical concern—it all made me physically sick.

I threw open the car door and scrambled out, doubling over in the bushes as I vomited violently.

Everything in my stomach came up, as if I was trying to purge the last five years of my marriage.

"Alessia!" Dante shouted, jumping out of the car. "What's wrong?"

I knelt on the ground, heaving, tears mixing with the bile streaming from my mouth.

It wasn't just sadness. It was rage.