She Took My Name and My Husband

I lit the candle, letting the stillness of the room settle around me. Its flame burned small and steady, a soft white glow, so composed compared to my shaking hands as I placed it beside the tiny blue socks we had bought just a month ago. Soft cotton, the color of the sky — picked out by Nico himself. He had said he wanted our son to grow up brave.

I sank to my knees before the little altar I had made for our baby, pressing my eyes shut.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I should have protected you… I should have seen them for what they really are. I'm sorry you never got to meet this world… maybe it's a mercy in the end."

I stayed there, motionless, letting grief wash over me, minutes — or maybe hours — slipping by without notice. When I finally rose, the resolve was there. It was time to take the next step. Time to move forward.

I started with the nursery. Every folded onesie, pacifier, and soft animal blanket — the fragments of dreams I thought we'd build — went into boxes. Alongside them went Nico's gifts: anniversary necklaces, journals, even the framed photo from our honeymoon on the Amalfi Coast, the one where he whispered, "You're my everything."

Lies. All of it.

I carried the boxes outside to the fire pit behind the estate's east garden, past the stone wall where a soldier stood post every night, and lit a match. The flames devoured our past. Ash spiraled into the wind like vanishing ghosts. As the heat kissed my face, my mind wandered back to the first time I met Nico — five years ago, the night I learned I was the rightful blood heir of the Ferrante Family. My world had shattered in a single breath. Yet there he was — calm, warm, persuasive. My family called it fate; he was the son of an allied Family, a perfect match for a blood-bound union.

And me? Foolish, hopelessly in love at first sight. He made me feel… seen.

But love from a man like Nico came with a price: conditions, expectations, manipulation, and, ultimately, betrayal.

When the fire had died to glowing embers, I returned inside to clean, still performing the role of a perfect wife. I opened his closet to arrange his things, then something caught my eye — a box hidden behind his jackets. Curious, I pulled it out. It was heavier than I expected.

Inside, my heart froze.

A photo album. Prenup photos. Nico. And Serafina.

Each glossy image was a knife twisting in my chest. Serafina in a white gown. Nico in a black tuxedo. She smiled at him like she had his heart, and he held her as if he had already abandoned me. The dates were recent, just days before the accident. My mouth went dry. My legs wobbled. But I didn't scream. Didn't cry. I closed the box and carried it outside. I had already mourned enough.

Returning inside, the smell of garlic and butter hit me. Serafina stood at the stove in the estate's kitchen, flipping shrimp like she belonged there. My parents, Donna Ferrante and Don Ferrante, sat at the dining table. Nico arranged wine glasses, smiling like everything was perfect.

I froze at the doorway.

Serafina turned and beamed. "Just in time. I made shrimp scampi — one of Nico's favorites… and Mom's too."

We all sat. Steam rose from the plate in front of me, parsley scattered atop it. I stared.

"What now?" my mother snapped, impatient. "You're not eating?"

"I… I'm not hungry," I murmured.

She waved a hand, frustrated. "Always difficult. Can't you at least appreciate your sister's effort?"

Serafina tilted her chin down, looking up through her lashes with that practiced gentleness. "It's fine. She doesn't have to eat if she doesn't want to."

"She should," Nico interjected smoothly. "Serafina went through the trouble. Don't be rude, Bianca. It's not always about you."

Not always about me?

I bit my lip, sharp. They didn't know — or maybe they did and chose to forget. I was allergic to shrimp. Hospitalized once, a full-blown anaphylactic shock. Yet no one remembered. No one asked. Not Nico. Not my mother. No one cared, because Serafina had made it. And because I was expected to comply.

My father sat at the head of the table, folding and refolding his cloth napkin into precise squares. He said nothing. He never said anything.

"Fine," I said, swallowing my pride along with a bite of pasta.

It only took seconds.

My throat tightened as if wrapped in iron, my chest pressed in from all sides. I struggled for air, grasping the edge of the table, fingers trembling, lungs gasping.

"What now?" Donna Ferrante snapped, her voice sharp and impatient. Her fingers drifted to the crucifix at her throat. "The food isn't good enough for you?"

"She's doing this on purpose," Nico said smoothly, swirling his wine. "If you didn't like it, Bianca, you could've just said so."

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

The room began to blur, shadows and spots spinning at the corners of my vision. Breathing became impossible — I was drowning in the very air around me.

Then — darkness claimed me.