Chapter 118 The Walls Had Ears
❦ Rosalind ❦
I dreamt of sunlight and laughter.
Of my mother sitting cross-legged on a checkered coperta, her pitch black hair shimmering in the afternoon glow.
She was brushing mine back, humming a soft and familiar song. My father stood a few feet away with his old camera, telling us to smile.
Her arm around me was warm. The smell of oranges permeated my subconscious. I was weightless and happy.
Then the light suddenly dimmed. Clouds rolled in, and the air thickened with rain.
My father cursed under his breath and lunged for me just as the sky opened and sticky rain poured down.
I screamed as he lifted me from my mother’s lap. My hand slipped from hers, my small fingers reaching, stretching…
And then I saw her face.
Her hair was plastered to her cheeks, her dress soaked, color gone from her sunken pallid skin.
Her mouth twisted as if she was calling for me but no sound came. Her head tilted at an impossible angle, red blooming around her neck like a second collar.
I woke up choking on my own scream.
My heart hammered. My throat burned. I curled into myself, pulling the blanket over my head as if it could shut the image out.
But it didn’t.
The sight of her lifeless face, conjured up by my brain, stuck to me.
I shook until tears came, and cried until the exhaustion emptied me out.
At some point I drifted off again.
No dreams this time.
Just a black blank canvas.
When I woke up again, pale light pressed against the curtains, warming my face, but my body felt heavy and sore from the crying.
The details of the nightmare were blurred, but the hollow in my chest told me it had been real.
I lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, and listening to the quiet hum of the house.
And then homesickness hit me.
My mind went to aunt Carina’s kitchen. The smell of rosemary and tomato. Juliana teasing me at every opportunity. I missed it all so much I could taste it.
I sat up with a kind of desperate energy.
Enough was enough.
I needed to go home, pack my things, and figure out my life. When I was far away enough, I’d send Viktor the divorce papers and get my clean break.
No more moping around pretending I wasn’t drowning in uncertainty where he was concerned.
My hair was still damp when I slipped out of the guest room and walked down the stairs, ready to leave before anyone noticed I was gone.
But halfway past the bar, something caught my eye.
A woman was slumped over the counter, her dark hair spilling across the wood. There was an empty bottle and a half-filled glass beside her.
I went over, and grabbed her shoulder. “Sabella… hey. Are you okay?”
Her body jerked and her eyes snapped open.
“Get your hands off me.” She sneered.
I let go immediately, stepping back. The smell of sour alcohol hit me.
“It’s barely morning,” I said quietly. “Isn’t it a little early to be drinking?”
She scoffed, reaching for the almost empty glass again. “What’s it to you?”
That’s when I noticed the dark circles under her eyes. With no makeup, she looked fragile. Sick, almost.
“You don’t look well,” I said before I could stop myself. “Should I call Dominic?”
She laughed harshly. “He’s busy with his new floozy. He doesn’t give a fuck about me.”
I blinked. “Tamara?”
“Who else?” she muttered distastefully, swirling the liquor in her glass.
“Last night, you two looked like friends,” I said.
She shot me a weak glare. “You won’t understand.”
I sighed.
”Being bitter won’t help, Sabella,” I said. ”At least hate someone to their face, not behind their back.”
”You don’t get to lecture me. You told Dante to break up with me.” She hissed.
“You really thought I’d let a woman like you near my friend?”
Her eyes flared.
The silence between us crackled.
And for a moment, I couldn’t tell if she was about to throw the glass… or start crying.
Then her eyes cleared slowly, and she pushed the half-empty glass away.
When she finally looked up at me, her voice was softer, her eyes glossy.
“How does it feel?” she asked. “Having everyone love you?”
The question caught me off guard, and for a second, I thought she was joking. But her face was tired and searching.
I was unsure what to say. Then I laughed and shook my head.
“It looks that way, maybe. But no one really loves me, Sabella. Not the way you think. Everyone’s just… being strategic. Even me.”
She tilted her head, studying me.
I leaned against the counter, tracing the edge of the wood with my finger.
“You’ll have more luck if you focus on one goal, instead of spreading yourself thin.” I added.
Her lips twitched. “Pun intended?”
I smiled. “Yes. Pun intended.”
She almost smiled back. Almost.
“Dominic loves you,” I said after a moment. “Whatever else you think of him, he’s still your brother. And if you doubt everyone else’s love, at least remember his.”
Her expression faltered, and she turned her head away, staring at the wall.
The light caught her profile, and she suddenly looked very young.
She was just a young woman trying to fit in somewhere, even if she was going about it the wrong way. Maybe she would learn, and change. Or else the next married man she tries to play with would have a wife more vindictive than me.
I stood there for a few seconds longer, waiting for her to say something, but she didn’t.
So I stepped back, adjusting the strap of my bag. “Take care of yourself, Sabella,” I murmured.
She didn’t answer.
Outside, the air was crisp and fresh. I took a slow breath, feeling something loosen in my chest.
For the first time in days, the fog in my head cleared a little.
I wasn’t going to let anyone but me steer my choices anymore. Not Viktor, not my ghosts.
The road ahead was still uncertain, but at least now, I could finally see it.
❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦
The gates looked smaller than I remembered, or maybe it was the silence.
Soldatos used to line the drive, smoking, laughing, and pretending not to watch.
But now, there were just two guards at the gate. The Marlow name used to mean something. Now it was a ghost.
I let the engine die and sat there, staring at the house. The shutters were closed. The fountain was dry.
This place didn’t feel like home anymore. It felt like a mausoleum.
And somewhere in there, my mother had died.
My throat tightened.
I won’t keep his name anymore.
After the divorce, I’d take my mother’s.
Fiorini.
Rosalind Fiorini.
It sounded… freer.
I got out of the car and walked into the house.
“Oh, Rosa!”
Claudia’s voice broke the stillness. She rushed out from the kitchen wing, her apron tied crookedly, flour dusting her hands.
Before I could say anything, her arms were around me in a warm hug.
“Sei a casa adesso,” she murmured. (You’re home now).“Whatever it is, eat first. Don’t let a man drain your light again.”
Her tone was gentle, but her words hit too close to home.
I knew she was talking about Viktor. But she didn’t realize she was right about more than that.
It wasn’t just Viktor.
It was my father too.
Both of them had taken pieces of me, one way or another.
For a moment, I thought about telling her everything I’d learned.
But then a thought hit me like ice water.
Claudia had worked for us for nearly thirty years.
She’d been my nanny, then the cook, then the house manager.
And the staff always knew everything that happened in a home.
My pulse started to race.
Claudia noticed it instantly. She pulled back, searching my face. “Rosa, what’s wrong? You look pale.”
I stared at her. The words formed before I could stop them.
“Claudia… what happened to my mother? How did she really die?”
Her face went completely still.
Then it drained of color, leaving her ashen.
My heart clenched. Ice ran down my spine.