TOO LATE, MY LOVE

Mrs. Miller

Three days later, Aitana walks into a high-end jewelry boutique on Madison Avenue. She needs a simple repair on an old silver chain—a task so small and ordinary it almost feels like normal life. The bell above the door chimes softly as she steps inside. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and polished wood.

And then she sees her.

Alessia Russo stands by the main display case. She wears a white cashmere coat that drapes over her slender frame like water. White pearl earrings catch the overhead light, framing a face that is gentle, charismatic, effortlessly beautiful. A silk shawl, worth more than a thousand dollars, is looped casually around her neck. She looks like a woman who has never known a day of hunger, of coldness, of fear.

The salesperson, a thin man with slicked-back hair and an eager smile, practically glides toward her. “Mrs. Miller,” he says, his voice dripping with deference, “is Mr. Miller not here today to pick out jewelry with you? We have some new arrivals—sapphires, diamonds, some stunning emeralds. Each piece would suit you wonderfully, Mrs. Miller. The emerald necklace you asked me to reserve is right here. Try it on—I’m certain it will match your complexion beautifully.”

He punctuates nearly every sentence with Mrs. Miller, buttering her up like a holiday roast. Alessia does not correct him. She just smiles, a soft curve of her lips, and tilts her head. The look in her eyes is one of quiet victory, a pride that doesn’t need to shout because it knows it has already won.

Then her gaze shifts. She notices Aitana standing frozen near the door.

Recognition flickers in her eyes. Alessia knows exactly who Aitana is. The two women have never met face-to-face, but they are bound by the same man, a silent triangle of pain. Alessia’s smile does not falter. It grows, tinged with something sharp and pleased. She holds Aitana’s gaze deliberately, then turns back to the salesperson.

“I’ll try the emerald piece,” she says, her voice light and honeyed. “Pedri does have exquisite taste.”

The words are a blade slipped between Aitana’s ribs. She stands frozen, her heart slamming against her chest. The emerald necklace, reserved under Pedri’s name, paid for with his money—money that, legally, belongs to the marriage. The injustice burns, but she refuses to let it show. She will not shatter under these crystal chandeliers, watched by a stranger who keeps calling another woman by her husband’s name.

She walks to the counter, her heels clicking on the polished marble. She addresses the salesperson directly, her voice calm and steady. “I’m here for a clasp repair. A simple silver chain.”

The salesperson glances between the two women, sensing the sudden drop in temperature. He clears his throat nervously. “Of course, madam. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

Alessia’s eyes drift over Aitana’s plain coat, her worn handbag, her unpainted nails. There is no pity in her gaze—only the quiet satisfaction of a woman who knows the battle is already over. She lifts the emerald necklace the salesperson presents, holds it against her throat, and admires herself in the mirror. “Yes,” she murmurs, “this will do perfectly.”

Aitana completes her small transaction with mechanical precision. She hands over the broken chain, takes the receipt, and turns to leave. But before she reaches the door, Alessia’s voice floats after her, soft and casual, as if they are old friends parting ways.

“Take care, won’t you? The weather’s getting cold.”

It is not kindness. It is a final, gentle twist of the knife.

Aitana does not respond. She pushes the door open and steps into the biting wind. The bell chimes behind her like a closing note. In the taxi back to the penthouse, she presses her forehead against the cool window and watches the city blur. Mrs. Miller. The title belongs to a woman who has never cooked Pedri a meal, never held his head during a fever, never buried his child. Yet the world hands it to her freely, while Aitana remains invisible—the real wife hidden in a glass cage, fading like old wallpaper.

When she arrives home, she goes straight to her study. She opens the bottom drawer and pulls out the divorce papers. They wait, blank and patient. She picks up a pen.

She does not sign yet. But she holds the pen for a long, long time.