"Yes, Uncle."
"Good. Dinner is at eight. I expect you there."
I stand and head toward the door with a heavy heart and heavier footsteps.
"Rosaria."
I turn back with arched eyebrows, wondering if now is when he blows up, if now is when he screams at me or slaps me or tells me what a horrible, unruly woman I am. But he doesn't.
"Welcome home," he says with a most sardonic smile, and I shudder at how cold he acts toward me.
I don't go to dinner. I don't leave my room for the rest of the evening. When Donata knocks, I ignore her. When servants bring food, I send them away. I sit by the window and watch Rome spread out below me, its lights twinkling in the distance.
My phone buzzes once, then again. Messages I don't read. Calls I don't answer.
The days that follow blur together. I attend rehearsals at the opera house, sing my limited parts, and return to the estate. I speak to no one unless required. I avoid Eva's concerned looks and skip meals until my dresses begin to feel loose.
But when I open my closet on Thursday morning and find my performance gowns restored—neatly pressed and hanging in perfect rows, as if they never left—I know this peace won't last. Neither will my silence.
The gowns mock me from their hangers. Crimson silk, midnight velvet, ivory satin—each one a costume for the role I'm expected to play. The dutiful niece. The grateful artist. The woman who knows her place.
I close the closet door and turn away with nothing more than calm sadness filling my chest. I came back to this willingly. I have to remind myself of that. And the reason was because when I sing, I feel alive. So why does it feel like I'm dying now?
That night, sleep refuses to come. I walk circles around my room, from window to door to bed and back again. My stomach churns, too sick to consider food, too restless to lie down. Everything around me—the estate, the dresses, the roles I'm given—feels less than a home and more than a prison. A gilded cage where I'm expected to sing on command.
I want my career back. I need it. But I can feel it slipping away no matter what I choose. Stay here and accept scraps, or leave and lose everything I've worked for.
After midnight, I retrieve my phone from the nightstand drawer. My fingers hesitate over the screen before I find Salvatore's number and press call.
He answers on the second ring.
"Rosaria."
His steady voice reaches through the darkness, familiar and comforting to my aching heart. I close my eyes and sink onto the edge of my bed. "I can't sleep."
"Are you alright?" The question almost breaks me. When was the last time someone asked that and actually wanted to hear the answer?
"No." Silence follows, but it doesn't feel empty. It feels patient.
"Tell me," Salvatore whispers, and I wish his arms could wrap around me now. I wish I could stay with him, yet sing on my stage and not lose what makes me… me.
"They gave me a role," I say finally. "Second soprano inTosca. After everything I've done for that house, after every review, every sold-out performance… they're treating me as if I'm grateful for scraps."
"You could've stayed here." His reminder bites me, though I don't react. I know he is offering me hope, but it doesn’t feel like hope.
"My career would've been over."
"I would've protected you." His tone shifts, and I feel sad that he thinks I'm ungrateful.
"From what? From losing the only thing I've ever been good at? The only thing that's ever been mine?"
Another pause.
"I respect that," he says quietly. "Your voice, your talent—those belong to you. But Emilio will only hurt you more if he discovers the truth about the baby."
The baby. The secret I carry alone, growing inside me while I pretend nothing has changed. Salvatore is right. If Emilio discovers I'm pregnant, everything changes permanently, and probably not for the good. I press my hand there as I ask him, "Say encouraging words to me..." And I curl up on my bed as he begins to tell me of a life we could have together if I slip away one last time.
If only my heart could believe in miracles.
