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.

Three days later, I stood in the villa we had shared for seven years and felt something inside me go quiet.

Along the wall were the photographs of our life together.

I took the photographs down one by one, and cut myself out of every frame.

Then I packed the things that were mine.

Anything we had once shared, I left divided.

vI had also arranged for the screenshots of Bianca’s messages and Instagram posts to be sent to Lorenzo’s email at a set time.

I had just sat down when another message came through.

It was from Bianca.

The time. The address for Christie’s.

And one line beneath it.

Dare to come, Mrs. Moretti? Lorenzo says tonight he’ll buy the final lot at any cost for me.

That evening, I arrived at the auction exactly on time.

I had not planned to go.

By midnight, the arrangements my mother had made would already be in motion. Soon, Sofia Moretti would be dead. What did it matter if a younger woman wanted to provoke me one last time?

But Bianca had sent me the catalogue too.

The final lot was a yellow diamond necklace so rare and absurdly expensive that it was clearly meant to dazzle.

What caught my eye instead was a pendant, quiet and elegant, exactly my mother’s taste. I decided to buy it for her.

I told myself that was why I was going.

The truth was, some part of me still wanted to see with my own eyes how far he would go for her.

Seven years. That was all it had taken for Lorenzo to fall in love with someone else.

By the time I entered the auction room, most of the front seats were already filled.

I took a place in the last row. I would bid on the pendant, then leave.

Lorenzo and Bianca were seated near the center of the room, leaning close together.

Every so often, Bianca glanced back toward the rows behind her.

The moment she spotted me, her mouth curved.

There was something bright and triumphant in it, like a girl already certain she had won.

The final lots were always reserved for the end. The pendant I wanted came up early, exactly as I’d expected. The designer was still unknown enough that no one fought me for it.

I got it for far less than it was worth.

I rose to leave.

Then Bianca’s voice cut cleanly across the room.

“Mrs. Moretti,” she called, sweet enough to make people turn. “Leaving already? You’ve only seen one little piece. The real treasures haven’t even come out yet.”

A few more faces turned.

Her smile sharpened.

“Especially tonight’s final lot. It would be a shame to miss it.”

I looked at her and almost smiled back.

At her age, arrogance comes easily. So does radiance. She was young, beautiful, alive with the kind of careless confidence that makes the world feel made for you.

No wonder Lorenzo wanted her.

Lorenzo touched the back of her neck lightly, a quiet warning for her to behave.

Then, almost absently, he glanced over his shoulder, as if curious what kind of person had managed to catch the attention of the woman beside him.

The moment he saw me, his face changed.

I had never seen guilt and anger appear together so clearly on one man’s face before.

This auction had drawn plenty of familiar faces, old acquaintances from Lorenzo’s world, people who had known us both for years.

With Bianca’s bright little call cutting through the room, there was no way for him to pretend he had not seen me.

Under all those watching eyes, Lorenzo had no choice but to motion for one of the attendants to lead me down to the empty seat beside him.

He turned to Bianca and gave her a look, telling her to move to one of the open seats in the back.

She shot to her feet at once, her eyes reddening almost instantly.

“No,” she said, her voice tight. “You said tonight was supposed to—”

“Go sit in the back, Bianca,” Lorenzo said, low and hard. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

She pressed her lips together, fighting not to cry.

I reached out and touched Lorenzo lightly on the arm.

“Let it go,” I said. “Don’t upset her on my account. I already bought what I came for. There’s no reason for me to stay.”

His face darkened.

“You’re my wife,” he said. “If anyone should be sitting here, it’s you. She has no reason to feel slighted.”

The words landed exactly where they were meant to. Whatever pride Bianca still had left showed plainly in her face. She bit down on it, turned, and dropped into a seat in the back row.

Lorenzo closed a hand around mine and kept me where I was.

At that point, there was no leaving without making a scene, so I sat beside him.

I did not need to turn around to feel the look Bianca was burning into my back.

It stayed there until the final lot came up.

As expected, Lorenzo won the yellow diamond necklace.

Only then did Bianca seem to recover, her expression brightening as though everything had gone back to the way she wanted it.

When the auction ended, she looked at him with open expectation.

But Lorenzo did not even glance her way.

Instead, he turned to me and fastened the necklace around my throat.

I started to lift a hand and stop him, but he caught my wrist before I could.

“Sofia,” he said quietly, “you deserve the best.”

Bianca went rigid.

Then she turned and stormed out without a word.

Lorenzo’s gaze followed Bianca as she left.

The furrow in his brow, the tightness in his jaw, the way his hand closed at his side, it was obvious enough.

I smiled, reached up, and unclasped the necklace, placing it back into his hand.

“Something this valuable belongs in a bank vault,” I said. “Not on me.”

He looked at me, startled. Some of the tension in his face eased.

He closed his fingers around the necklace, but before he could speak, I did.

“Still,” I said, “thank you for the gift. I left something for you too. It’s in the drawer beside our bed.”

He pulled me into an embrace and kissed me.

“You always know how to surprise me,” he murmured. “Now I can’t wait to see what it is.”

Even then, his eyes kept going to the door.

He wanted to go after Bianca.

I smiled to myself and said softly, “If something needs your attention, you should go.”

He pulled back and looked at me, almost relieved.

Then he left quickly, the velvet case still in his hand.

A few minutes later, I stepped into the car my mother had arranged, and we pulled away into the night.

Through the window, I caught sight of Lorenzo’s black Bentley cutting across the street ahead of us.

I turned and watched it disappear.

Goodbye, Lorenzo.

This time, for good.