For seven years, I lived as Luca Marchetti's wife but was never allowed at his family's table. He said Sicilian rules barred outsiders—even a wife—from family holidays, and I believed him.
Then I found photographs of Luca with Sienna Valenti in the seat that should have been mine. I followed them from a luxury store to a hotel and called with a fake medical emergency. He heard me say I couldn't breathe—and chose to stay with her.
The truth was worse than one affair: Sienna had returned eighty-seven days after our wedding, and Luca had spent every holiday of our marriage lying to me. On New Year's Eve, I packed the little I owned, asked for nothing, and emailed him divorce papers: Happy New Year. Let's end this.
Only after I disappeared did Luca learn Sienna had planted the photos to force me out. He rejected her, signed the divorce without a fight, and tried to repay seven years with money, a home, and regret—but there was no price that could restore what he had burned.
Three years later, I owned a quiet bookshop and a life entirely my own. Luca sent me the one book I would once have treasured, then left for Italy. I put it on the shelf and sold it. There were no roses left to burn, and no part of me left waiting for him.
