Eleanora
1038 Words
~ Eleanora’s POV ~
Let me tell you what my life looked like the night it ended.
Not with fire or sirens or shattered glass. Nothing dramatic. It ended quietly — with a phone call, a living room, and my father not quite meeting my eyes.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
At six forty-five on a Thursday evening in June, I was on a rooftop in Milan’s Navigli district with my best friend Taylor, my feet hooked over the railing, an Aperol Spritz in my hand, and the particular freedom of someone whose biggest problem was choosing between two good things.
The city spread itself below us in amber light and summer noise. Warm. Alive. Beautiful in the careless way Milan always was in June.
Taylor was halfway through telling me about a man she met at an exhibition opening the week before. I was only half listening, distracted by a couple arguing dramatically on the street below us.
“Italians treat public arguments like performance art,” I said.
Taylor snorted. “You say that like you’re not Italian.”
“I’m observant. There’s a difference.”
“You’re judgmental.”
“I’m right.”
She laughed and took another sip of her drink.
I was twenty-two years old. I had a thesis to finish, plans for my future, and absolutely no idea my life was about to split cleanly in half.
Then my phone rang.
~ * ~
My father called me often enough that seeing his name on my screen should not have meant anything.
But it did.
Something cold moved through me before I even answered.
I stared at the screen for two rings.
Then I picked up.
“Nora.”
Just my name.
The way he said it made my stomach tighten instantly.
“Come home.”
Not hello.
Not how are you.
Just: come home.
“Papa, I’m out with—”
“Now, Eleanora.”
My full name.
That stopped me.
Across the table, Taylor’s expression changed immediately. She had gone still the moment my face did because that was who Taylor was — someone who noticed things quickly and understood them even quicker.
“Go,” she said simply. “Text me later.”
I was already standing.
~ * ~
The Metro ride home took eleven minutes.
I counted every one of them.
The entire time I tried to come up with reasonable explanations.
Something was wrong with the business. My grandmother was ill. There had been some kind of family emergency in Naples.
None of it came close.
That is the thing about catastrophic news. Your mind never rehearses for the correct version.
I reached our apartment on Via Montenapoleone at seven twenty-three.
The first thing I noticed was the shoes.
Men’s shoes. Dark leather. Expensive enough to look effortless.
Not my father’s.
I stared at them for a second too long before walking into the living room.
~ * ~
My parents were sitting side by side on the sofa.
That alone was wrong.
They sat like people preparing to defend a decision already made.
My mother’s hands were folded tightly in her lap. My father leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking exhausted in a way I had never seen before.
And sitting across from them, in my armchair, was a man I had never seen in my life.
He was maybe sixty. Silver hair. Dark suit. Calm in the way powerful men often are.
He looked at me once — quick, assessing, thorough.
“Eleanora,” my father said quietly. “Sit down, please.”
Please.
My father only said please when he already knew I would hate what came next.
I sat.
My mother still would not look at me.
That frightened me more than anything else in the room.
“This is Signor Agostino Ricci,” my father said. “He represents the Esposito family.”
The name landed heavily between us.
Esposito.
Even growing up in Naples, in our careful and respectable life, I had heard that name. Everyone had.
The Espositos existed in the way storms existed — distant until suddenly they were not.
I looked at the man across from me.
He looked entirely comfortable sitting in my home destroying my evening.
“There is a proposal,” my father said.
Proposal.
Not discussion.
Not possibility.
Proposal.
“Regarding you.”
“What kind of proposal?”
This time Signor Ricci answered.
“A marriage,” he said evenly. “Between yourself and Vincenzo Esposito. The arrangements have already been agreed upon.”
For a second nobody moved.
Marriage.
Vincenzo Esposito.
Already agreed.
“Between our families,” I said slowly.
Then I looked at my father.
“Without me.”
“Nora—”
“Look at me, Papa.”
He did.
And there it was.
The decision already made. The guilt already swallowed. The wall already built.
Whatever this was, he had accepted it long before I walked into the room.
“How long?” I asked.
“Eleanora—”
“How long has this been decided?”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Three weeks.”
Three weeks.
While I had been going to lectures and meeting Taylor for drinks and worrying about my thesis, my father had been arranging my marriage to a man I had never met.
My mouth felt dry.
“When is the wedding?”
Signor Ricci answered calmly.
“Tomorrow.”
Silence.
Real silence.
I stood up so quickly the chair legs scraped against the floor.
“I need air.”
Nobody stopped me.
I walked down the hallway, into my bedroom, and shut the door behind me.
Tomorrow.
Not months from now.
Not after a conversation.
Tomorrow.
I pressed both hands against the door and forced myself to breathe evenly.
Then I picked up my phone and called Taylor.
She answered immediately.
“I need you,” I said.
“I’m already in a cab,” she replied.
Of course she was.
Outside my window, Milan carried on with its evening — golden lights, traffic, laughter drifting up from the street below.
Beautiful. Indifferent.
My life had just ended and the city did not even pause.
- Writer
