Chapter 0003: A Glimpse of Independence
1768 Words
The mansion was eerily quiet. The kind that snaked down opulent corridors, slithered beneath doorways, and encircled her like an imperceptible chain.
Valeria stood in front of her bedroom's large mirror, her reflection gazing back at her with lifeless eyes. The stranger standing in front of her was dressed in a sophisticated silk nightgown, which did nothing to alleviate the chill that was soaking into her bones.
She c****d her head, examining herself as if she were a new artwork. There was no vitality or vitality in the way her long, chestnut hair fell over her bare shoulders. Her emerald eyes, which had been bright, had become dull.
A trophy wife. She had turned into that.
The thought tore at her gut.
She ran her fingertips over the exquisite embroidery on the nightgown that Lorenzo had given her. An unwritten order had put it on the bed earlier that night. Choosing her attire, jewellery, and events was his method of keeping her under control. He had dictated every aspect of her life.
Her fingers gripped the fabric firmly, then she forced herself to let go as she let out a breath.
She pressed her palm on the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window as she approached it. She was still imprisoned in this immaculate cage, despite the bustling, vibrant metropolis stretching out below her.
She was overcome with memories of a more ambitious Valeria in her earlier years, with aspirations that went beyond ballrooms and whispered rumours. She had aspired to have her own career and become more than just Lorenzo Dantes' wife.
How had she fared?
Her breath smeared the glass as she let her forehead to rest against it. She had persuaded herself that one day Lorenzo would change, and she had been holding on for so long.
However, he refused.
This marriage was everything to her. Her affection. Her devotion. Who she was.
She felt a chill run down her spine as a sudden, acute awareness hit her.
She would not be quiet any longer.
She had anticipated a magnificent, lavish, and completely empty charity event.
Overhead, crystal chandeliers glistened, their golden light softly illuminating the sea of pricey suits and beautiful dresses. The clinking of glasses, courteous laughing, and the barely concealed rivalry of the social elite filled the air.
Valeria walked around the room with ease, her smile practiced, her posture flawless. She had become adept at her role.
Then she heard it.
"Val?"
A name from a previous existence.
The breath left her lungs as she turned.
Standing a short distance away, Elena Garcia observed her with a mixture of amazement and another emotion, something gentler, almost melancholy.
Valeria whispered, "Elena," as though uttering the name out loud would shatter whatever delicate moment it was.
Elena looked about her with her dark eyes. "Years have passed."
It had.
They had once been inseparable, two young ladies with limitless aspirations who stayed up late in cafés to talk about seemingly unattainable futures. Everything had vanished once Valeria married Lorenzo.
A smirk formed on Elena's lips, but it didn't quite make it to her eyes. "I've heard you had a good marriage."
Valeria had a tight smile. "So they say."
For far too long, Elena's eyes were fixed on her. "You don't appear content."
Valeria gripped her champagne flute even more tightly. "I have everything I could possibly require."
Elena shook her head and laughed quietly. "Yes, things. But is that sufficient?
Valeria felt a painful twist in her chest.
Elena's voice trailed off as she drew slightly closer. "You once discussed launching your own business. creating a reputation for yourself. Do you even recall that?
Valeria parted her lips but kept them shut.
Because, in reality, she couldn't recall.
The memories felt like someone else's fantasies since she had buried that version of herself so deeply.
Elena's eyes grew softer. "You know, it's not too late."
Long after Elena left, the words continued to reverberate, piercing Valeria's very being.
She really saw it for the first time.
She had been living in a bubble, believing that survival was sufficient, that luxury equated to pleasure, and that stillness equated to love.
However, it wasn't.
She was starting to feel choked by the gala.
Valeria rushed past the ballroom's heavy doors and onto the balcony, breathing in the cool night air as if it would clear her head of the raging thoughts.
She could see the city lights glimmering against the night. Tonight was different from the many nights she had spent gazing down at this similar view.
"I didn't anticipate seeing you here."
She was startled by the familiar voice.
She made a sudden turn.
Chris Langford smirked knowingly as he watched her while leaning on the railing. Only the fun gleam in his hazel eyes softened his angular features, and his dark brown hair was slightly ruffled. Not completely, but he had changed.
"Chris," she uttered.
His eyes never left hers as he sipped from his glass. "I see you're still married."
She let out a laugh that was devoid of humour. "It would appear so."
Chris's head c****d slightly. "You don't appear to be a woman who aspires to be."
She paused.
Chris had always had a keen eye. In the past, he had been her confidant and best friend. They had debated philosophy, ambition, and life on innumerable evenings. Then Lorenzo had occurred, and Chris had joined the history she had left behind, just like everything else.
But now that she was standing here and the fresh breeze was blowing through her hair, she knew something.
Not the polished version, not the billionaire's wife, but her, Chris had been one of the few who had seen her.
His face was contemplative as he placed his drink on the railing. "Do you miss it at all?"
She took a swallow. "What's Miss?"
His mouth quirked. "The woman you were before."
A c***k appeared inside her.
She grabbed the railing and turned aside. "I'm not sure if she still exists."
Chris took a step forward. Before she could feel his fingers on hers, she could feel the warmth of his presence.
It was a slight touch, hardly noticeable, but it gave her a sudden surge of something she hadn't experienced in years.
He spoke less loudly now. She remains there. You only need to locate her.
With her heart racing, she closed her eyes.
She felt something other than numbness for the first time in a long time.
Except for the moonlight that came in through the tall windows and left pale lines on the polished floor, the bedroom was dark. Valeria sat rigidly at the side of the bed, her hands clutching the silk sheets as if they were going to ground her. She felt the dense, oppressive silence of the room pressing down on her.
She had yearned for years to be loved by a man who hardly paid her any attention.
She closed her eyes and c****d her head slightly as memories came flooding back, uninvited and unrelenting.
She had once had faith in Lorenzo's feelings for her. Every look he gave and every word he said seemed like a promise. The sound of his key turning in the door had made her heart ache as she waited for him through the night, expecting for a soft touch or a hushed reassurance.
However, such times never materialised.
Rather, she had mastered the art of subsistence. A quick look. A courteous nod. Just one acknowledgement word.
She had deceived herself into thinking that patience would be rewarded and that one day he would see her if she played the ideal part, the loyal wife, the elegant socialite, the silent shadow behind his commanding presence.
She knew better now.
Her nails dug into the pricey silk, her fingers curled into the fabric underneath her.
It hit her like ice solidifying in her bones.
For a man who never once made an effort to be enough for her, she had wasted a great deal of time trying to be enough.
The silence was broken by her phone vibrating on the nightstand.
With a sharp sigh, she reached for it.
Just one message.
Lorenzo: Tomorrow is the Gala. Prepare by seven o'clock.
Her stomach churned. No salutations. No show of love. Only an order.
She gripped the phone more tightly.
Standing next to him like a treasured property, smiling when appropriate, and speaking only when required for another night. Another night of witnessing his warmth, which he never spared for her, enchant others.
She looked across the room at her reflection in the mirror.
A lovely woman, gracefully poised, but completely dead.
A c***k appeared inside her.
She couldn't continue to live this way.
The event was a magnificent display of money and influence. The sea of immaculately attired guests was bathed in a golden glow from crystal chandeliers. The air was filled with the sound of glasses clinking, whispered discussions, and well-crafted pleasantries, all mixed with laughter.
Valeria moved fluidly through the crowd, taking exact measurements with each stride. She had perfected the knack of seeming calm yet feeling totally unattached.
A waiter came by with a champagne tray. She took a glass, not so much to drink as to hold.
Then she caught sight of them.
Camila and Lorenzo.
She was slapped by the sight.
As always, Lorenzo's presence was dominating as he stood in the middle of a small gathering. Every part of him radiated strength and authority, and his black tuxedo was expertly cut. Camila chuckled at something he said while standing uncomfortably near to him, her well-groomed fingertips resting softly on his sleeve.
Valeria felt something break inside her.
This was nothing new to her. The gentle touches, the flirtation, and Lorenzo's acceptance of it.
By now, she ought to be numb to it.
However, she wasn't.
She looked away, her fingers clenching around the fragile stem of her glass, her heart hammering in her ears.
Now, with a flurry of feelings in her head that she was unable to control, she walked around the room with purpose.
She arrived at the garden terrace's double doors, pushed them open, and stepped out into the refreshing night air.
She breathed quickly and irregularly.
Enough.
Too many years had passed while she waited, hoped, and longed for something that would never materialize.
She placed the champagne glass on the stone railing, her hands shaking.
This was no longer how she would live.
She was about to walk away when she noticed a movement.
She was being observed by a shadowy figure.
- Writer
