CHAPTER 13: Staged Cruelty
1263 Words
They didn’t send her away gently.
Later, she would understand why. Gentle could be questioned. Gentle invited doubts, loyalty, hope.
Cruelty slammed doors.
“We have to make it believable,” Donatella said briskly as they outlined the plan. “If people think you left because of a lovers’ quarrel, they’ll keep an eye out. If they think he threw you out like trash, they’ll write you off.”
The words made Elena’s stomach twist.
“So I become trash,” she said.
“You become a woman who survived a bad man,” Donatella replied. “People will avoid you out of pity and discomfort. It’s the safest armor.”
“The staff—” Elena began.
“Will think what they need to think,” Matteo said, voice flat. “They’ll be angry with me. That’s fine.”
He wouldn’t look at her.
The party came two nights later.
Officially, it was a fundraiser—politicians, businessmen, people who pretended not to know where some of the money came from.
Unofficially, it was a stage.
Elena’s dress was tighter than she liked now that nausea came and went in waves. Rosa had adjusted it, muttering about “men and their timing.”
“The baby?” Elena whispered as Rosa zipped her up.
“Safe for now,” Rosa said. “You are doing something brave. Even if it feels like being shoved off a cliff.”
Brave felt like the wrong word.
The ballroom hummed with voices, clinking glasses, soft music. Elena smiled when expected, nodded when introduced as “Mrs. De Luca,” ignored the speculative glances.
She found Matteo at the edge of the room, talking to a city councilman. His suit was perfect; his face was a mask.
When their eyes met, something flickered between them, too quick for anyone else to catch.
Then he looked away.
It started near the end of the night.
Someone made a comment—loud, laughing—about “contract brides.” Elena didn’t catch who. She just heard the punchline.
“Everyone knows De Luca only married the girl to polish his image. You think he’ll still be holding her hand after a year?”
Faces turned, hungry for drama.
Matteo could have let it slide. He could have ignored it, taken the high road he never walked.
Instead, he took the microphone from the band singer.
“Elena,” he called, voice carrying.
Dozens of eyes swung toward her. Heat crawled up her neck.
She stepped closer, heart knocking against her ribs. “What are you doing?”
“Correcting a misconception,” he said.
His smile was sharp enough to cut.
“You’ve all been so curious,” he said to the room. “About my marriage. My reasons. My tastes.”
Soft laughter, nervous.
“So let me be clear,” he continued. “There was never any love story here. No fairy tale. Just a convenient arrangement. And like most inconvenient habits—”
He turned, looking straight at her now.
“—I’m done with it.”
Confusion buzzed like angry bees.
“What are you talking about?” Elena asked, brain scrambling. This wasn’t the script they’d discussed.
“You heard me,” he said, voice rising just enough. “You did your job. You smiled, you stood where I told you. Now the year is nearly over, and I’m bored.”
A ripple of sharp intakes of breath.
He stepped closer, invading her space in a way that would read as menacing to everyone watching.
“You think I don’t know?” he said, cold. “The messages. The calls. The way you look at the gates like they’re prison bars. You want out so badly? Go.”
Her throat burned.
This wasn’t for her. It was for the cameras, the ears, the eyes that would carry stories back to Il Corvo’s men: De Luca tossing away his wife, severing his weakness.
Still, it cut.
“You don’t mean this,” she whispered, forgetting for a moment that she was supposed to play along.
“I mean every word,” he said, eyes like stone. “You were a mistake I could afford for a while. I can’t anymore.”
Someone gasped. A woman near the bar whispered, “Poor thing…”
Her vision blurred.
“How much are you paying me for that mistake?” she asked, voice shaking but audible. “Or was that part of the contract too?”
His jaw flinched, barely.
“Check your account,” he said. “The transfer is done. You have a flat waiting in another city, documents, a new name. You’re free. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Yes,” she said, because the script demanded it and because if she didn’t say it, she’d break down right there.
He leaned in, lips near her ear, voice dropping to a whisper no one else could hear.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “Forgive me. Please.”
Her knees almost buckled.
Aloud, he said, “Get out of my house, Elena.”
Rosa materialized at her elbow, fingers digging into her arm, the only thing keeping her from collapsing.
Elena lifted her chin.
“If I’m trash to you,” she said, playing her part with all the strength she had left, “I’m grateful you finally took out the garbage.”
The room buzzed—shock, delight, sympathy. Rosa steered her away, out of the ballroom, down the hall.
As soon as they turned the corner, Elena swallowed a sob that threatened to tear her in half.
“He didn’t mean it,” Rosa whispered fiercely. “You know this.”
“Everyone else thinks he did,” Elena choked.
“That’s the point,” Rosa said. “You must hate him out loud so they will ignore you in silence.”
The car waited at the service exit.
A suitcase—already packed. Documents in an envelope. Keys to a flat somewhere she’d never seen.
Donatella stood by the open door, rain misting her hair.
“Il Corvo’s eyes are all over tonight,” she said. “He’ll hear about this by morning. He’ll cross you off his list as a weakness.”
“And put me on one as a humiliated nobody,” Elena whispered.
“Exactly,” Donatella said. “It’s safer to be pitied than coveted in this world.”
She hesitated, then stepped forward and pressed something small into Elena’s hand—a burner phone.
“For emergencies only,” she murmured. “No calls to the house. No calls to the men. If you are in trouble, text the number saved as ‘Plumber.’ Then destroy it.”
“Plumber,” Elena repeated numbly. “Fitting.”
“Elena.” Donatella’s voice softened. “He loves you. That is why he is doing something this stupid.”
Tears burned. “If he loved me, he’d come with me.”
“If he comes with you, you both die,” Donatella said simply.
There was nothing left to say.
Elena climbed into the car.
As it pulled away from the only life she’d ever known with Matteo, she pressed her hand to her stomach and told herself this was for the baby. For the tiny life that had never asked to be born into bullets and marble.
But as the mansion shrank in the rear window, one thought drowned out the rest:
He threw me away.
Even if it was a lie, it hurt like truth.
- Writer
