Chapter2

Vincent didn't come back until the next evening. He walked in carrying that familiar cologne scent, wearing his usual gentle smile, as if he wasn't the one who'd coldly planned my murder over the communicator last night.

"Sorry, baby." He kissed my forehead, his arm naturally circling my waist. "There was some trouble at the port, it dragged on. I brought you a gift."

He handed me a deep blue velvet jewelry box. I took it, my fingers steady. Inside was a Hermès scarf, the silk smooth and cold.

"Do you like it?" He watched me, his eyes deep under the light. "I remembered you always wanted this pattern."

I had mentioned it. Three months ago when we passed a shop window together, I'd said something. Back then, I thought it was sweet that he remembered such small things.

Now it just made me sick.

"It's beautiful." I looked up and smiled at him. "Thank you, Vincent."

He seemed relieved and ruffled my hair. "I'm glad you like it. I still have a call to make. You go rest."

He went upstairs. I took the scarf to the kitchen and tossed it on the counter. Then I pulled out my phone and opened Cecilia's social media.

She'd updated half an hour ago. A photo of her posing with a brand-new platinum Birkin bag, captioned: "Thanks to my darling for the early birthday gift! Still two months away, but he's always so impatient~"

In the corner of the photo, that deep blue velvet jewelry box was casually thrown on the couch, lid open, empty inside.

I stared at that photo for a long time. So even the gift was secondhand. She got the bag, he gave me the complimentary scarf.

I closed my phone and turned on the faucet. The rush of water drowned out the sound of something shattering inside me.

Three days later, Vincent asked me to accompany him to a charity gala.

He said it was an important occasion and he needed me there.

I put on the silver gown he'd selected and walked in on his arm like a human vase.

Then I saw Cecilia.

She stood under the crystal chandelier in a red backless dress, smiling like she was the hostess of the evening.

When she saw us, she walked straight over.

"Vincent!" She immediately hooked her arm through his other one, completely ignoring my existence. "I've been waiting for you forever. Mr. Andre wants to talk to you about the shipping routes. He's right over there."

Vincent's body stiffened. He glanced at me, something flashing in his eyes—maybe apology, maybe irritation.

"Elvira, just wait a moment." He said, then let Cecilia pull him away.

I stood there, still holding my champagne glass.

A few family associates were watching, their eyes filled with curiosity, pity, and mostly the schadenfreude of enjoying a good show.

Twenty minutes later, Vincent came back. Cecilia was stuck to him like a piece of gum.

Our table was full of family business partners. A bald old man, his face flushed from drinking, suddenly raised his glass toward me:

"Mrs. Costa, won't you toast Miss Cecilia? She's Vincent's most important… business partner."

The table went silent for a moment, then filled with ambiguous low laughter.

Cecilia blinked at me, holding her champagne glass, waiting.

I picked up my glass. The champagne bubbles rose steadily upward.

I looked at Vincent.

He looked back at me. Time seemed to stretch.

Then he moved.

He reached out his hand—not for my glass.

He took the champagne glass from Cecilia's hand.

"She's allergic to alcohol." Vincent told the old man, his tone casual, like he was making a harmless joke. "I'll drink this one for her." He drained it in one gulp.

Cecilia smiled triumphantly and leaned against his shoulder.

Vincent's hand patted my back lightly, like a reassurance. Then he turned and continued chatting and laughing with those people, Cecilia still clinging to his side.

Just now, he'd so naturally taken Cecilia's glass.

He chose to protect her.

Protect her dignity, protect her from embarrassment in front of me, his 'wife.'

I watched his natural profile, watched the coquettish way Cecilia tilted her head to talk to him.

The people around us seemed to have accepted this picture—the Costa godfather, his public mistress, and his wife, quiet as a prop.

I sat back down in my chair, keeping the smile on my face.

Under the table, my hand clenched the fabric of my dress, nails digging into my palm.

The rest of the gala was like a slow execution.

I watched Vincent and Cecilia whisper to each other, watched him pull out her chair, watched him occasionally glance my way with a complicated look, as if to say 'be understanding.'

Be understanding of what? Understanding that my husband publicly chose to protect another woman? Understanding that my existence was just to make his performance more convincing?

In the car on the way home, Vincent tried to touch my hand. I pulled away.

"Elvira," he sighed, "tonight's situation… Cecilia's father is very important to us. I need to maintain the relationship with the Valerio family. You understand, right?"

I looked at the streetlights flying past the window. "I understand."

"Good." He seemed to actually believe me. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. "I know you felt wronged. In a few days, I'll take you to Paris. Just the two of us, okay?"

I didn't answer.

When we got home, I went into the bedroom and locked the door. I took out my phone and opened the photo album. There were still a few pictures left that I hadn't deleted last time.

I stared at myself on the screen, smiling and leaning against him. That stupid woman who thought she was loved.

I pressed delete. All of them.

Then I opened the encrypted messaging app and sent Luca Marino a brief message.

"We need to speed up the timeline. He can't wait much longer."

Luca's reply came quickly. "Understood. The auction invitation is ready. Are you sure you want to be there in person?"

I looked at the blurred outline of the ceiling in the darkness.

"Positive." I typed. "I want to watch him lose everything with my own eyes."