CHAPTER ONE
983 Words
Three days later…
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“No! Not now, Mother,” Antonio muttered, with his voice rough from sleep or whiskey.
He grunted as he pushed himself up from the couch for the first time in hours. As he sat up, the half-empty bottle of whiskey sliding off his chest and thudding softly onto the rug.
He looked around and found his phone buzzing nonstop, and with an irritated sigh, he tried to fish it out from where it was and toss it onto the table.
It rang again.
He stared to the ceiling for a long second before rubbing his face with both hands. “For God’s sake…” he breathed, the sound half a groan, half a plea.
His mother, again. It was her fifth call in less than an hour. He could almost hear her voice without even answering.
He pulled the phone finally from his pocket and dropped it onto the table with a dull thud.
“Enough,” he whispered and then turned away before the call ended on its own.
The summer house was still and had always been a place of escape. Tucked along the quiet curve of a lake, it was built from rich cedar and stone, its wide verandas spilling into views of water and endless sky. In the summer, sunlight glowed across its walls while during winter, fireplaces filled every room with warmth. It wasn’t just a house. It was a legacy.
His great grandfather had built it with his own hands in the 80’s which serves as a retreat for the family to gather, far from city politics and the constant grind of wealth. Later, it became a gift to his father, a symbol of endurance that no matter how the world shifted, the Morante family always had its corner of permanence. One day, it would be passed on to him, Antonio. The man who, for as long as he could remember, had carried the quiet pressure of living up to a name carved in history.
He had grown up between two worlds. The grandeur of their estate in the city that includes ballrooms, chandeliers, polished shoes echoing against marble and the summer house, with its simpler comforts, where the rules of wealth loosened just enough to allow laughter over a shared bottle of wine, or lazy mornings fishing with his grandfather on the lake.
To the outside world, Antonio was everything a Morante should be. Refined, capable, steady and educated, . He moved with the confidence of someone who had never lacked, never hungered, never been told no. And for most of his life, that was true.
But money never taught him how to handle betrayal.
Now, Antonio lay sprawled on the couch in the summer house, shirt half-open and a half-empty bottle of whiskey resting precariously on his chest. Empty glasses littered the coffee table, their rims sticky, and the air hung heavy with the sour tang of alcohol and sweat. You could tell it was a mess.
For three days, this had been his rhythm: drink until the memories blurred, pass out, wake to silence, and drink again. But no matter how much he drank, the image stayed. It played over and over with cruel precision.
The phone buzzed again. He sighed, cursed under his breath, snatched it up, and scrolled through the flood of messages.
The screen lit up and there were all lined up.
First, came the familiar ones, his mother, who seemed to live in a constant state of joyful panic these days:
Can you confirm the number of guests again, sweetheart?
The florist says the roses just came in!
Your uncle’s flight is booked ,he lands Friday!
I still can’t believe my boy is getting married.
Why aren’t you taking my calls!?
Then came his sisters, The group chats bursting with laughter, photos, and pastel-colored plans .
His groomsmen trading jokes about bachelor party. Even his godmother chimed in: “We can’t wait to see you two at the altar, Antonio.”
And then…Elena.
Dozens of missed calls. Hundreds of messages.
He stared at her name for a long time. Then, quietly, he locked the screen and let the phone fall beside him.
He pressed his hands over his face, trying to muffle the memory, but it was useless.
The images played behind his eyelids like a cruel film that refused to end. Her voice, her laughter, the way she looked at him before everything shattered.
For the first time in his life, he wasn’t the heir.
He wasn’t the perfect son.
He wasn’t the man with everything. He was just a man that was tired, a man who was done.
Antonio reached for the bottle again, pouring another shot even though the glass from before still sat half-full.
The whiskey sloshed unevenly, spilling a thin amber line down his wrist.
His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass,staring into it for a long time, as if the answer might surface from its depth.
What was he even doing?
He was supposed to be celebrating. His wedding was days away.
He should’ve been finalizing the suits, calling the caterer, checking with the priest, confirming seating chat, checking in with the priest.
Instead, he was here, alone in an old summer house, surrounded by the ghosts of laughter that once filled these rooms.
The air reeked of alcohol and silence, the kind of silence that pressed too close, that made you feel the weight of your own thoughts.
He sighed again, exhaling through his teeth.
The worst part wasn’t guilt. It was confusion. Because even now, even after everything , his mind still found its way back to her.
Back to the woman who betrayed him.
He hated her for what she’s done. He hated himself for loving her. And that was the cruelest part of it all.
He hated himself for still thinking about her.
- Writer
