MARRIED TO MY ENEMY

LITTLE BUTTERFLY

CHAPTER 13: LITTLE BUTTERFLY

Isabella Bianchi stood in the grand front foyer of Villa Bianchi, her best hostess smile fixed firmly in place. She had perfected that smile over twenty-eight years of charity galas and tense family dinners.

“Antonella, darling. Welcome. I am so sorry. Ximena has come down with a little fever.”

She opened her arms to hug Antonella Moretti while behind her Lorenzo shrugged off his coat. He was home from Rome, unaware of the storm brewing inside his own house. Isabella’s heart pounded as she held the lie steady.

Antonella air-kissed both of Isabella’s cheeks. Her skin felt cold against Isabella’s flushed face. “Una febbre? Che inconveniente,” she said smoothly, her voice laced with false sweetness. (A fever? How inconvenient.)

She wore a crisp white Chanel suit despite the early hour. Her platinum hair sat perfectly styled. In her manicured hands rested a small square velvet box in deep navy blue. It looked old and expensive.

“Matteo sent this for her from Mexico,” Antonella continued. “He wanted her to have it immediately. Apriamolo, cara.” (Let us open it, dear.)

She clicked the box open.

Inside, nestled on cream satin, lay a necklace. Old gold, heavy, with a single teardrop pearl hanging from it. A Moretti family heirloom. The kind of piece passed down to a bride, never a mere girlfriend.

Isabella felt her stomach twist. “It is beautiful.”

“Matteo said it reminded him of her,” Antonella replied, her smile sharp as a blade. “Delicata. Like something that could break if not handled properly.” (Delicate.)

Lorenzo stepped forward then. He slipped a possessive arm around Isabella’s waist. “She will wear it tomorrow. The doctor has given her strict rest.”

“Doctor?” Antonella’s eyebrow rose sharply, her eyes narrowing with calculated concern. “For a simple fever? Mio figlio will not be pleased to hear his bride is… fragile.”

“Thirty-nine degrees,” Isabella said quickly. Too quickly. “Our doctor in Lugano was very firm. Complete isolation for forty-eight hours. He worries about the engagement party. You understand.”

Before Antonella could press further, her phone rang. The screen showed a photo of Matteo on a yacht in sunglasses. The contact read Matteo ❤️.

Antonella answered on speaker without asking permission. “Mio figlio. We were just talking about you. I am here with Isabella and Lorenzo.”

Isabella’s blood turned to ice. Lorenzo stood beside her, calm and commanding as always.

Matteo’s voice filled the foyer, clear with a slight echo suggesting he stood on a balcony. Music played faintly in the background along with the sound of waves. Mexico felt very far away and yet suddenly too close.

“Ciao, Mamma,” he said, warm and easy. “Put me on with my little butterfly. I want to hear if she likes the necklace.”

Little butterfly.

Not my fiancée. Not my wife. Not even Ximena.

My little butterfly.

“Darling,” Antonella said, her sharp eyes locked on Isabella’s face, “temo che your little butterfly is in bed. She has a fever.” I am afraid.

Silence stretched on the line. Only the distant waves answered.

“A fever?” Matteo repeated. He still sounded amused. “Now? One month before she walks to me?”

Lorenzo moved closer to the phone. “Matteo. Lorenzo here. The doctor says it is exhaustion. Stress. Girls get nervous before weddings.”

“Of course they do, Don Lorenzo,” Matteo said. His respect sounded too smooth, almost mocking. “Tell me, Isabella, is she sleeping now?”

Isabella forced herself to lean toward the phone. “She is, Matteo,” she said, keeping her voice soft and maternal. “The doctor gave her something strong at midnight. She has been asleep since. I did not want to wake her.”

“Do not wake her,” Matteo replied immediately. “Let my little butterfly rest. Tell her when she wakes up to drink tea with honey and lemon. And tell her I do not like when she is sick. It makes me worry.”

“I will tell her,” Isabella whispered.

“And tell her something else for me,” Matteo continued. His voice dropped slightly, forcing Isabella to strain to hear. “Tell her I cannot wait to see her soon.”

Isabella’s hand tightened on Lorenzo’s arm until her knuckles whitened. He glanced at her, concern flickering in his eyes, but he said nothing in front of their guest.

“Of course,” she managed.

“Ti amo, farfallina,” Matteo said softly to the empty air, to the girl who was not there. “Get better for me.”

The line went dead.

Antonella slipped the phone back into her Birkin bag as if nothing unusual had happened. “È così innamorato,” she said brightly, though her eyes remained cold and assessing. He is so in love. “He calls her every night from Mexico. He will be home next week for the engagement party. We cannot have any more… delays.”

Lorenzo nodded once. “Good. A man should miss his bride.”

Isabella could barely breathe. The pearl necklace in the open box gleamed too brightly under the foyer lights. She kept seeing Ximena’s face from that engagement dinner, pale as paper, while Matteo called her his little butterfly across the table like a pet he had purchased. Lorenzo stood beside her, still oblivious to the truth. Antonella watched them both with the practiced gaze of a capo’s wife who had buried more secrets than most men ever dreamed of.

Franco appeared silently with a silver tray of espresso. No one reached for a cup.

“Well,” Antonella said, closing the velvet box with a soft snap and pressing it into Isabella’s hands. The gold felt heavy and cold in her palm. “Since the bride is resting, we will wait. But not too long, Isabella. Capisci? These alliances are delicate. Like pearls.” Understand?

It was not a question. It was a warning wrapped in silk.

“Yes,” Isabella said. “Of course. We will postpone the dress fitting tomorrow. The doctor was very clear.”

“Perfect.” Antonella’s smile did not reach her eyes. She air-kissed Isabella’s cheeks once more, colder this time, then turned toward the door. “Give my regards to Ximena when she wakes. And tell her Matteo expects strength from his future wife.”

After Antonella’s car pulled away down the long drive, Lorenzo turned to Isabella in the now-quiet foyer. He studied her face for a moment, then reached out and gently took the velvet box from her hands.

“Let me see this,” he said, opening it to examine the necklace under the light. “It is a fine piece. Heavy with tradition. Ximena will appreciate it when she feels better.” He closed the box and handed it back to her. “You look tired, Isabella. Has this fever been hard on you?”

Isabella managed a small nod, her throat tight. “It came on suddenly. I have been checking on her.”

Lorenzo placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch firm and reassuring. “You should rest as well. Where is Anthony? Call him down. I need to speak with him about the ports before I return to my study.”

As if on cue, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Carlos appeared, dressed in fresh clothes, a crisp button-down and dark trousers that made him look far more put-together than the disheveled young man from earlier that morning. He moved with careful steps, his face composed, as though he had overheard fragments of the conversation about Ximena on his way down.

Lorenzo nodded at his youngest son. “Carlos. Good. Tell your brother Anthony I want him in my study. Now.”

Carlos glanced briefly at his mother, a flicker of understanding passing between them. “Sì, Papa. I’ll get him.”

Lorenzo gave Isabella’s shoulder one last squeeze, then headed toward his study, already pulling out his phone to return calls from Rome. Anthony soon descended the stairs, exchanging a quick, tense look with his mother before following his father. The heavy study door clicked shut behind them, leaving the foyer suddenly still.

Isabella stood there for a moment, the velvet box heavy in her hands. Then she turned to Carlos, who lingered nearby. The weight of the morning, of the lies, the call, the pearl that now felt like a chain, crashed over her all at once. She pulled her youngest son into her arms and hugged him tightly, burying her face against his shoulder.

Tears she had held back for three long days finally slipped free. She cried silently at first, then with soft, shuddering breaths, clinging to Carlos as if he were the only solid thing left in a world unraveling around them. He wrapped his arms around her without a word, holding his mother as the villa’s quiet pressed in from all sides.