But something rebellious rises in my chest, a reaction that surprises me with its intensity. I'm tired of being managed, tired of having my choices dictated by men who see me as a useful ornament. Emilio's control has shaped every aspect of my life, from the roles I sing to the interviews I give to the image I project. Even my rebellion feels choreographed.
"Thank you for the warning," I tell Luca, my voice cooling to professional detachment. "But my personal relationships are my own business."
"Rosaria—"
"We're done here."
I turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the corner. The other singers watch my departure with careful attention—people who sense drama but can't identify its source. Their whispers follow me across the rehearsal room, speculation and gossip that will fuel conversations for days.
The remaining hours pass in a blur of mechanical performance. I sing my reduced role with technical perfection, giving nothing of myself to the music. Alba struggles through her expanded part, her voice straining to reach notes that should come naturally. But the directors offer encouragement instead of correction, their compliments as hollow as her performance.
When rehearsal finally ends, I gather my things calmly, though it takes a measure of self-control. The other singers file out in clusters, their voices carrying fragments of conversation that stop when I pass. Eva Mariani lingers near the dressing room entrance, her expression sympathetic but cautious.
"Rosaria," she calls softly as I approach. "People are talking."
"People always talk, Eva. It's what they do best."
"This is different." She glances around, ensuring we cannot be overheard. "Someone saw you being driven out of the city yesterday. Expensive car, Naples plates."
The information shouldn't surprise me. Rome's opera community thrives on gossip, and my movements are always scrutinized. But hearing it confirmed makes my stomach tighten with unease.
"Who saw me?"
"Does it matter? The story is already spreading." Eva's voice carries genuine concern. "Whatever you're involved in, be careful. The Costa name protects you, but it also makes you a target."
Before I can respond, she hurries away, leaving me alone with the implications of her warning. The dressing room door beckons, offering temporary refuge from the stares and whispers that follow my every move.
Inside, the familiar chaos of costumes and makeup provides no comfort. I sit before the mirror, studying my reflection with critical eyes. The woman who stares back appears composed, professional, untroubled by the day's events. But I can see the cracks in my carefully maintained façade, the tiny signs of strain that reveal more than I wish to acknowledge.
"Difficult day?"
Alba's voice makes me tense, though I don't turn from the mirror. She enters the dressing room with the confident stride of someone who has claimed territory, her reflection appearing beside mine in the glass. It's only a matter of time before they take my dressing room and give it to her too.
"Not particularly," I reply, taking my concealer pen and dabbing it below my eyes to hide the faint lines forming there from fatigue.
"Really? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks quite difficult indeed." She settles into the chair beside me, makingno pretense of preparing for departure. "Losing a lead role, facing whispers about mysterious car rides, dealing with artistic directors who've suddenly lost their confidence in your abilities."
"What do you want, Alba?"
"To offer perspective." Her sharp smile reflects in the mirror, satisfied. "You see, some of us have been watching your career with interest. Watching how easily success came to you, how doors opened at the mention of your name. It's fascinating, really, how quickly those same doors can close."
I set down the makeup and turn to face her directly. "If you have something to say, say it."
"Salvatore DeSantis." The name falls from her lips with a nasty smirk. "Handsome man, from what I hear. Dangerous, certainly. Not the sort of person a respectable soprano should be seen with."
The confirmation that she knows his name, that she's been monitoring my activities, sends cold fury through my veins. "Stay out of things you don't understand."
"Oh, but I understand perfectly." Alba leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I understand that protection only lasts as long as it's useful. I understand that powerful men have little patience for women who embarrass them. And I understand that your uncle is the type of man who values family loyalty above all else."
"My relationship with my uncle is none of your concern."
"Isn't it? When that relationship affects my opportunities, my career, my future?" She stands, smoothing her dress. "You've had everything handed to you because of your name. But names can become liabilities, Rosaria. And when they do, people get discarded."
She moves toward the door, pausing to deliver her final words. "Enjoy your reduced role. Consider it practice for what's coming."
The door closes behind her as I sit alone among the costumes and mirrors, processing the threats hidden beneath her polite words. Alba has positioned herself as my replacement, ready to step into the vacuum my disgrace will create.
But her confidence reveals a miscalculation. She sees my association with Salvatore as weakness, as evidence of poor judgment that will inevitably lead to my downfall. She doesn't understand that the pull I felt in his presence, the way my voice changed when I sang for him, represents something I've never experienced before.
