THE DAY I MARRIED MY NIGHTMARE..

CHAPTER 7..

"I am sick of it Leo, ! Completely and utterly sick of you!" the woman’s voice shrieked, a high, aristocratic tone dripping with venom and dramatic theatricality.

"Look at this house! Look at this life! You are a brilliant, prominent doctor, a man who is supposed to possess the world, and yet you are the most boring, tedious man in the history of Italy! You spend every waking hour locked in that pathetic psychiatric clinic with your broken, unredeemable patients, leaving me to rot in this gilded cage!"

"Hazel, please, keep your voice down," a deep, resonant, aristocratic baritone cut through her shrieks, a voice that instantly made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a familiar cadence that sent a phantom chill straight down my spine. "The house staff is within earshot. Your constant dramatics are entirely unnecessary. I am doing my duty as a physician."

"Your duty?!" Hazel barked out a cruel, mocking laugh. "Your duty is to your wife, not to the scum of the streets who stumble into your facility! You treat your work like some grand penance, like you’re trying to wash away some invisible stain on your soul! Well, I am not going to be the casualty of your guilt anymore, Leonard! You are cold, you are distant, and you are driving me insane with your absolute boredom!"

I pressed my back against the cold plaster wall of the corridor, my fingers gripping the hangers of the garment bags so tightly they dug into my skin. I was eavesdropping, completely captivated by the raw, ugly fracture inside this beautiful, perfect world. They had everything, all the money, the silk, the marble palazzos and yet they were tearing each other apart with the exact same teeth and claws that Beatrice and I used in the slums.

Suddenly, a sharp, heavy cane thudded against the marble floor directly behind me.

"And what, precisely, do you think you are doing, girl?" a cold, imperious voice demanded.

I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat as I whipped around. Standing at the entrance of the vestibule was an elderly woman draped in a heavy, structured gown of dark purple silk. Her silver hair was styled into an immovable, towering coiffure, and her withered face was set into an expression of absolute, unyielding severity. She gripped a silver-headed cane with a hand covered in massive diamond rings, her piercing gray eyes locking onto me like a hawk targeting a field mouse.

My mouth opened, but for a second, no words came out. I had been caught red-handed.

"I... I am here from the industrial district laundry shop, signora," I stammered, instantly forcing my defensive, proud mask back over my face as I lifted the luxurious garment bags. "I have the custom wardrobe delivery from the psychiatric clinic's administrative department. For the house staff."

The elderly woman looked at the pristine, designer suits and the emerald gown in my hands, her expression softening by a fraction of an inch, though her icy authority remained absolute. She snatched the garments from my grip with a surprising amount of strength, inspecting the plastic covers before turning her gaze back to my face, noting my swollen jaw and frayed clothes.

"The house staff is currently occupied with the... domestic disturbances in the parlor," she said coldly, her tone making it clear that she expected absolute discretion from a girl of my class. "You have performed your task. Leave the property immediately through the side gates. Do not look back."

"Yes, signora," I said, giving a sharp, rigid nod.

I turned and practically sprinted out of the side doors, my boots clattering against the stone steps as I rushed back to my hidden green bicycle. My mind was a chaotic whorl of confusion, adrenaline, and the lingering echo of that man’s deep, baritone voice.

I mounted the bicycle and pedaled down the hill with reckless speed, the wind whipping through my messy hair as I left the heavenly estate behind. But the chaotic energy inside me hadn't quieted down. The sting of my intense quarrel with Beatrice was still burning like a hot coal in my chest, a heavy weight that the high-society drama couldn't erase.

I needed an anchor. I needed the one person who could fix the broken threads of my soul.

An hour later, I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the ancient parish church. The cool, silent interior washed over me, the scent of beeswax and stale incense instantly lowering the temperature of my boiling blood. I walked down the center aisle, my boots thudding softly against the stone, my chest tight with a mixture of anger and raw, childlike vulnerability.

I found Father Damon sitting in the front pew, methodically polishing a silver chalice with a white cloth. He lifted his gray eyes as I approached, taking in the defensive, wounded look on my face and the frantic pacing of my steps.

"You look like a storm cloud that has lost its path, Soteria," he said softly, setting the chalice down on the bench beside him.

"I had a fight with her, Father," I burst out, dropping onto the wooden pew across from him, my hands trembling as I buried my face in my palms.

"A horrible, intense fight. We said things... she said things, Father. She told me she could have left me in the freezing rain six years ago. She called me an ungrateful stray."

Father Damon let out a long, heavy sigh, the deep wrinkles on his face tightening with a profound, parental sorrow. He stood up, walking over to my pew, and laid a gentle, frail hand on my trembling shoulder. His touch was the only one that didn't feel like a violation; it was an anchor in the middle of my personal tempest.

"And what did you say to her, child?" he asked quietly, his soft gray eyes searching mine.

"I told her she sold her soul to a loan shark," I whispered, my voice cracking as the raw guilt began to leak through my defensive armor.

"I told her her charity was nothing but a mistake. I was furious, Father. I was so angry because I’m trying so hard to save us, and she treats me like I’m a child who doesn't understand the stakes."

Father Damon shook his head slowly, his expression hardening into a stern, reprimanding look that I knew all too well from my years in the orphanage. He tapped his finger against the wooden back of the pew for emphasis.

"Soteria, you are a creature of pure fire, but sometimes your fire burns the very people who are trying to keep you warm," he said, his voice carrying the heavy, unyielding authority of a true peacemaker.

"Beatrice did not say those words to hurt you; she said them out of a deep, suffocating terror for your future. She signed that paper with Enzo because she would rather spend the rest of her life in debt than see you rot in a prison cell. Her sacrifice is absolute, and your words were a cruel, ungrateful blow to a heart that beats only for you."

I looked down at the cold stone floor, the tears finally escaping my eyes and dripping onto my worn boots. The pride vanished, completely swallowed by the agonizing truth of his words.

"You will leave this sanctuary right now, Soteria," Father Damon commanded gently, but with an iron finality that left absolutely no room for rebellion. "You will ride that bicycle back to the industrial district, you will step into that laundry shop, and you will look that beautiful, crazy woman in the eyes and apologize with every single shred of humility you possess. You fight hard because you love hard, but a house divided against itself cannot stand against the monsters of this world. Go home, child. Make peace with your mother."

I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, standing up from the pew. The volatile storm inside my chest had finally cleared, leaving behind only a quiet, desperate need to mend the fracture in my sanctuary.

"Thank you, Father," I whispered.

I turned and walked rapidly out of the church, the heavy oak doors closing behind me as I mounted my rusted green bicycle, pedaling hard toward the slums to fix the only home I had left.