Page 183 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

I knew her parents had been negligent, selfish, absent. That’s why I invited her into our home when we were teenagers. That’s why my parents slowly became hers too, over the years, until the accident.

And all that time… she envied me.

She attended my wedding dreaming of stealing the man I loved.

“I’m sorry, Bianca. Truly. But here’s a newsflash for you: envying other people’s lives doesn’t make you happy. Before envying what others have, maybe ask yourself what you actually bring to the table.”

Her smile returns, slow and cruel.

“Oh, I know exactly what I have to offer,” she replies with icy softness. “A baby.”

Then she leaves the room.

When I return to the waiting room, Bianca’s chair is empty.

So is Dante’s.

I spot them at the end of the hallway, entering the consultation room. Bianca walks with her head held high, triumphant.

Dante turns around for a fraction of a second, his gaze finds mine, worried.

I force a smile. Then I sit down. And stare at that closed door as if it could give me the answers I refuse to face.

The minutes that follow are a form of personal hell.

I imagine them talking with the doctor about their baby.

Someone sits down on my left.

Stephen.

Dante must have called him.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He simply settles beside me with that way he has of occupying space without invading it, and looks at the closed door too.

“You holding up?” he finally asks.

“Yes.”

It’s a lie.

And we both know it.

47. Ten Weeks

Dante

Valeria’s pain cuts straight through me.

I saw her try to smile. A fragile, brave little smile that never reached her eyes—and I had to look away before my face betrayed just how much this situation is costing me too. Not in the same way. Not for the same reasons. But still.

I wanted to take her hand. Tell her I know, that I see, that her dignity in all of this both commands my admiration and breaks me at the same time.

But this is neither the place nor the moment.

I follow Bianca into the consultation room.

The doctor is a woman in her forties, with a bright smile and gentle movements—the kind of practitioner who instantly puts you at ease. She welcomes us, invites us to sit. We exchange a few words—the usual questions to establish context.