THE DEVIL'S FORCED BRIDE

SIX MONTHS

Monday morning. 6 AM. I woke up to a woman laughing downstairs.

Not Rosa. Rosa never laughs like that. Rosa laughs loud in the kitchen when Marco drops something. This laugh was soft. Practiced. The kind of laugh girls use when they want a man to look at them.

I didn't go down immediately. I stood at the top of the stairs in my old pajamas, bare feet cold on the marble. From here, I could see the dining table.

She was tall. Blonde hair straight, red lipstick like blood, tight black dress that didn't look like business. She was sitting too close to Damiano. Her hand was on his arm, her fingers playing with his suit sleeve. She was leaning in, laughing at something he said.

Damiano wasn't pushing her away. He was drinking his black coffee, listening. His face was blank. That Devil blank face he uses for everyone.

But he wasn't pushing her hand away.

I felt something weird in my chest. Tight. Like a rope pulling. Like when I saw Jake touch Sofia's hand at the flower shop last year and I wanted to slap his hand away. That same tight, angry feeling.

But why would I feel that for Damiano? I don't even like him. I tell myself every day I don't like him. I married him because Papa owed money. Not because I wanted him.

So why does my chest feel tight?

I stayed hidden behind the stair wall. Rosa came from the kitchen with toast. She saw me. Her eyes went wide. I put my finger on my mouth - _shh, don't call me. Don't say Mrs. Moretti is awake._

Rosa understood. She went back to the kitchen.

"Damiano, you should have married me," the blonde said, her voice now soft, not laughing. "My family is at Moretti level. Not... flower shop level. I would have been a better wife for you. My father could have given you a Chicago deal in one day. You wouldn't need to suffer."

My hands made fists on the cold railing. Flower shop level? She thinks my family is low level?

Damiano said nothing. He just looked at his coffee. He does that when he doesn't want to talk.

"Everyone knows you only married her because Lorenzo died and your grandfather forced you," she continued, her hand now moving from his arm to his shoulder. "Everyone in Manhattan knows you will divorce her in six months. So why not start now? I can help you with Chicago. My father is waiting for my call. We can fix this mistake."

Six months. Divorce.

The words hit me like cold water.

Six months. So he did have a plan. Of course he had a plan. The Devil always has a plan. He would marry me to save face after Lorenzo died, keep me for six months so his grandfather would stop shouting, then divorce the poor girl from Queens and marry a Moretti level girl like her.

It makes sense. Why would he keep me forever? I'm just Elena Rossi. I arrange flowers. I wear old pajamas. I leave my bedroom door open like an i***t hoping he will talk to me.

I felt cold. My bare feet felt colder.

I didn't want to hear more. I quietly went back to my room. I didn't make noise. I closed my door softly and sat on my bed.

I thought I would feel happy. Divorce means freedom. Means I can go back to Queens. Means I can go back to Papa's flower shop, wake up at 5 AM, smell roses, be Elena Rossi again, not Elena Moretti who lives in a big cold mansion with ten black dresses.

But I didn't feel happy. I felt empty. Like my chest had a hole. Heavy. I put my hand on my chest where it felt tight before. Now it felt empty.

Downstairs, I heard a chair moving hard. Scraping on marble. Then a woman's voice, high and angry. Then high heels, fast, angry clicking. Then the main gate opened, and the car drove away fast.

The blonde left.

I waited ten minutes. I counted. One to six hundred. Then I splashed water on my face so I didn't look like I was crying - even though I wasn't crying, my eyes were just hot. Then I went downstairs like I just woke up. I made my steps heavy so he could hear me coming.

Damiano was still at the dining table, alone. His coffee was cold, untouched. His laptop was closed. He was looking at the window.

"Who was that?" I asked, trying to sound normal, trying to sound like I don't care. I sat far from him, on the other side of a big table.

He looked up. His eyes were tired.

"No one is important. Business," he said.

"Business comes at 6 AM in red lipstick and tight black dress?" The words came out before I could stop. Sharp. Jealous. I sounded jealous and I hate that.

He raised one eyebrow. That thing he does when he knows I am lying or jealous.

"You were watching?" he asked.

"No!" I said too fast. Too loud. "I just woke up! I heard noise!"

"Elena," he whispered, leaning forward, "when you lie, your ears turn red."

I touched my ears quickly with both hands. They were burning hot.

He stood up slowly and walked to my side of the table. He put both hands on the table, trapping my chair. He was so close I could smell his cologne, the same cologne from the night he sat outside my bedroom floor and talked about Chicago.

"What did you hear from the stairs?" he asked low, voice quiet so Rosa wouldn't hear.

"Nothing. Just that you will divorce me in six months. So... okay. Six months is fine. I can go back to Queens then. I can arrange flowers again. It's a good plan," I said, trying to sound strong, but my voice was shaking.

His face changed. Hard. Devil face gone, now something else. Angry but not at me. At her.

"Who said I will divorce you in six months?" he asked.

"She did. The red woman."

"Valentina talks too much," he said, his voice hard but quiet. "That plan was before. Before you thanked me for letting your family come yesterday and hugged me in front of my guards. Before you left your bedroom door open for me every night this week. Before you wore my shirt that night and I couldn't sleep because my shirt smelled like you."

My heart was beating so loud I thought he could hear it.

"So you changed your mind?" I whispered, looking at his mouth because I was too shy to look at his eyes.

"Yes," he said, looking at my mouth too, then my eyes, then my ears that were red. "Did you change yours?"

"Change what?"

"About not liking me. You said you will never like me. Do you still not like me, Elena?"

I couldn't answer. My whole face was red now, not just my ears. My chest felt tight again, but not angry tight like before. Different tight. Warm tight.

He leaned closer, just a little, not too much, giving me space to move away if I want. I didn't move away.

"Next time you want to spy from the stairs," he whispered, his breath near my ear, "wear shoes. Step number three makes noise when you are bare feet. It creaks. I heard you at 6:02 AM. I heard you holding the railing. I heard you breathe when Valentina touched my arm."

He knew I was there the whole time. He knew I watched. He let her touch his arm to see what I would do?

"You did it on purpose?" I asked, shocked.

"Maybe," he said, almost smiling, that small almost-smile he only does when we are alone. "I wanted to see if my wife gets jealous and she doesn't even know it yet."

"I'm not jealous!" I said loudly, standing up, chair falling back.

"Okay, you are not jealous," he said, picking up my chair like it weighs nothing. "But your fists on the railing said a different story."

He went to the office. At the door he turned back, black suit, black coffee in hand to throw away.

"And Elena? There is no six months. You are stuck with me longer than that. Much longer. So you can stop counting."

Then he left. The gate opened, his Benz left, guards following.

Rosa came from the kitchen smiling big. "Mrs. Moretti, why are your ears so red? And why is your chair on the floor?"

"I'm not jealous! I don't even like him! I just didn't like her hand on his arm! She has fake nails!" I shouted, but I was smiling too and I don't know why.

Rosa laughed. "Fake nails, yes. And fake laughs too. But your jealousy is real, Mrs. Moretti."

I went to my room and looked at the two separate rooms. Mine and his. Doors opposite.

Tonight, I will leave my door fully open. Not small. Fully open. And I will not pretend it is for air. It is for him. If he wants to come and tell me there is no six month divorce.

And maybe I will wear that blue dress again tomorrow. The one he said he likes. Not for him. For me.

Or maybe a little bit for him too. I am confused now.

I touched step number three on my way up. It really does creak when bare feet step on it. How does he know everything?