TRUST WAS BROKEN
1984 Words
Fiona stepped into her room quietly, the hallway still echoing with distant laughter and clinking glasses from the late-night staff clean-up. The air was cool, scented faintly with garden jasmine that drifted through the open window.
Jenny was curled on the far end of the bed, fast asleep — still dressed from earlier, a novel folded open beside her, her breathing calm and even. Fiona smiled faintly. Jenny had waited up for her. Again.
She sat by the window, hugging her knees to her chest, staring out into the garden where she had just walked with HER DAD — where everything changed.
Gio’s words echoed in her mind.
The softness in his voice. The way he looked at her — not like a stranger, not like an obligation, but like someone he chose.
But Fiona couldn’t ignore the noise in her heart. The noise of Viola’s tears.
The noise of web articles she’d seen where Gio was always beside Viola.
She rubbed her hands together, the family heirloom ring cold against her skin.
“Why now…?” she whispered to herself. “Why me…?”
She stood and walked to the mirror.
Her reflection looked tired. Overwhelmed.
“Is this love? Or is this a crown I didn’t ask for?”
She glanced back at Jenny, then down at the soft green velvet box Mr. Salvatore her dad had handed her quietly after the garden walk.
Inside was the engagement ring.
Tears welled in her eyes.
“How do I say yes… when someone else already built her dreams around him?”
Silence swallowed the room.
Even the wind had gone still.
All that remained was Fiona’s heart — beating far too fast for an answer she hadn’t yet found
Fiona’s heart was beating far too fast—for an answer she hadn’t yet found.
Meanwhile, in the quiet of her room, Viola had collapsed to the floor, tears soaking into the fabric beneath her. The crying wouldn’t stop—waves and waves of it, as if her heart was unraveling. Long into the night, she wept, until sleep finally claimed her where she lay.
Mrs. Salvatore found her like that. The door cracked open just enough to let the hallway light spill in, and she saw the girl she had raised like her own—curled up, small and broken. Her heart squeezed.
She stepped in quietly and sat beside Viola. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. She just gathered her into her lap, stroking her hair gently, holding her like she did when Viola was small and afraid of the dark.
And she stayed there, through the quiet hours of the night.
By morning, Viola stirred. Her eyelids fluttered open and, seeing her mother beside her, she clung to her tightly. Her voice cracked as she pleaded, “I want Giovannie… please don’t give him to Fiona… please, Mom…”
Mrs. Salvatore held her close, her own eyes damp. “Sweetheart…”
Her voice faltered. How could she explain something she barely understood herself?
“I love you, Viola. You are my daughter—no matter what. You’ve been here through everything, and I will never forget what you’ve given up… what you’ve been for this family.”
She kissed the top of Viola’s head, her hand trembling slightly.
“But Fiona… she didn’t choose this. She was taken from us. From me. She’s my blood, and I wasn’t there for her—for so many years. I can’t take away what’s rightfully hers.”
Viola’s breath hitched. Mrs. Salvatore’s voice softened further, heavy with grief.
“My heart… it’s torn, Vi. Between the daughter I raised and the daughter I lost. I wish I could make this easier. I wish love was enough to change what’s fair.”
She pulled Viola back gently, looking into her tear-filled eyes.
“But I will not stop loving you. I will not stop being your mother. Even if I can’t change what has to happen.”
And there, in the quiet morning light, two hearts clung to each other—one broken, the other breaking—while outside, the world continued as if nothing had changed at all.
Morning at the Salvatore Estate – A Family on Edge
The soft clinking of cutlery and gentle murmurs of conversation floated through the grand dining hall. Sunlight spilled in through the arched windows, glinting off the polished tableware. Mr. Salvatore sat at the head of the table, calm but watchful. Meera,Max, and Fiona’s mother sat along the sides, sharing warm conversation. Fiona, in a soft yellow kurta, laughed quietly beside her father, who looked the most alive he had in years.
Just then, the soft click of heels echoed from the stairwell.
Viola.
Draped in an emerald satin robe, her hair tied in a loose braid, she descended slowly, taking in the sight before her — Fiona smiling… Max leaning over to feed her a rasagulla with that same childlike grin he used to give when he was a child… Her mother calling Fiona “kanna”(In India parents and elders call younger daughters and son canna sweetly)… Everyone acting like a perfect family.
Her heart twisted in rage.
Before she could retreat, Mrs. Salvatore turned toward the stairs and called out sweetly,
“Viola, darling! Come, sit beside Max… we were waiting for you.”
Forced to hold her storm behind her eyes, she walked to her seat. As she sat beside Max, he barely looked at her, still talking with Meera and Fiona.
Fiona, meanwhile, picked up the steaming chicken gravy bowl and gently served it to Max, wiping a small drop that fell on his plate.
Max smiled, took the last rasagulla, split it, and offered the bigger half to Fiona.
She hesitated, blushing, but took it.
Viola’s eyes locked on the exchange.
Meera noticed.
Her gaze shifted from Max to Viola — and what she saw made her heart heavy.
Viola’s nails were digging deep into her palm under the table. Her jaw clenched.
She was breaking — but not from pain. From envy.
Mr. Salvatore finally cleared his throat and said in a soft, fatherly voice,
“Viola, sweetheart. After breakfast… come to my study. I want to talk with you.”
His tone held guilt, not authority.
A man who didn’t know how to console the daughter he unintentionally pushed into the shadows.
after breakfast viola went to her father study
The room was warm, filled with aged books and leather-bound memories.
Viola sat across from her father, arms folded, her face impassive.
He looked at her with tired but gentle eyes.
“I know, baby,” he began slowly. “This isn’t fair to you. None of this was supposed to happen this way.”
She didn’t speak.
He continued, “You’ve always been loyal. Dutiful. I saw the woman you were becoming… and I was proud. Still am.”
Her lips twitched.
“But Fiona… she never knew we were alive. She grew up thinking we abandoned her. And when we found her, she didn’t walk back — she fought her way back. Every step.”
He leaned closer.
“I just want you to remember… the crown is not just a title. It’s a weight. And it needs a heart strong enough not just to carry it, but to carry others.”
Viola nodded stiffly.
“I’ll keep that in mind Da daaddd” she whispered, rising to leave.
Just when viola passed the hall, Mera called out Viola for a small walk in the garden.
Meera walked beside her, slowly, hands behind her back.
They strolled past the trimmed rosebushes, the breeze gently tugging at their robes.
“I wanted to talk without the others,” Meera said gently.
Viola didn’t respond.
“You’ve been hurt, Viola. And we’ve been unfair to you.”
She turned to look at her. “You were always protected. Sheltered. Loved. But Fiona? She didn’t even know who she was.”
Meera’s voice softened further.
“She didn’t know her parents were alive. She didn’t know she had siblings. And when she came here, we all expected her to fit into a family that had already moved on.”
Viola’s steps slowed.
“She’s been trying to learn everything — our rules, our expectations, our shadows. And she still stood strong.”
Viola’s jaw trembled slightly. Her chest was tightening.
Meera reached out and gently touched her arm.
“We know what we did to you was wrong. And for that… I’m sorry. We’re sorry.”
Viola froze.
That word.
“We.”
Meera had separated her.
“We.”
Not “you and I.” Not “us.”
“We” meant everyone else... and not her.
Her eyes flickered with realization.
Maybe it was real.
Maybe they had chosen Fiona over her.
Maybe she was the one left out now.
A soft sadness passed through her — but it lasted only a second.
Because the next thought became clearer:
“If I want the crown… I cannot afford softness.”
She looked up at the distant estate, her fists clenched again.
Softness was for the weak.
And Viola Salvatore… was never weak.
Viola spoke Grandma right
So grandma, I understand what you are all trying to say to me.
I am the adopted daughter, not blood, so I should be silent. That is not what you want to say.
She said this and walked away, taking her from the garage.
Meera felt sad for Viola. Even though she didn't know her she still considered her a granddaughter because she had been living with her daughter and son-in-law in Fiona's place for the past 20 years.
The soft hush of the morning faded as Fiona returned to her room. The silk curtains swayed lazily with the breeze, and golden light pooled on the floor beside her bed. Jenny was still curled up under a velvet blanket, peacefully asleep, her chest rising and falling like nothing in the world could harm her.
Fiona stood by the door, her hand still on the knob. Her heart beat slowly, heavily. The echo of Mr. Salvatore’s words during their walk in the garden still lingered:
“He loves you, Fiona. He waited for your answer not as a Sicilian, not as a heir… but as a man who believes you’re the only one who can see him clearly.”
She stepped quietly inside.
Right beside Jenny’s sleeping form.
She watched her.
The innocence.
The calm.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered softly.
Her hands trembled.
Memories swirled in her head —
Gio’s burning gaze,
His trembling hands reaching for hers,
The unspoken promises,
The way his eyes always found Viola in every public photo.
“Was it ever real?” she murmured.
She clutched the bedsheet between her fingers, staring ahead, guilt choking her.
She wanted to trust him — Gio.
She wanted to believe she was wanted for who she was, not what she represented.
But doubt was a stubborn flame. And guilt — even worse.
She has a mother now. A father. A brother who split his rasagulla with her.
She had a place.
But did she want the man who always seemed to belong to Viola in public?
She stood, walking to the mirror.
Her own reflection surprised her — she looked older. Stronger. But… burdened.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she whispered to herself,
“If I give my answer… there’s no going back.”
She turned toward the door, but didn’t move.
Not yet.
Because what she needed was not to decide for the family.
Not for Gio. Not for Max.
Not even for Meera or Mr. Salvatore.
She needed to decide for herself.
- Writer
