But he shakes his head. "Our risk. This is our venture now."
The word "our" still sounds strange between us, but I'm learning to accept it. The child growing inside me has changed the mathematics of everything we are to each other.
My phone buzzes against the desk surface. A text from Eva appears on the screen.
Eva: 9:47 AM: Press conference confirmed for three today. Hair and makeup team will meet us at the opera house at one. Are you ready for this?
I show Salvatore the message. He nods once, then stands and moves to the window overlooking the gardens. "The media will be hungry for details. They'll push hard about the father, about us."
"Let them." I join him at the window, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach. At four months, the pregnancy is beginning to show despite the carefully tailored clothes. "The story speaks for itself."
The drive back to Rome takes two hours through winding Tuscan hills. Salvatore makes calls in rapid Italian while I review my prepared statement. The words feel inadequate for what I'm about to announce—not just pregnancy and marriage, but the complete reinvention of my career.
The Rome Opera House appears through the car window, its neoclassical façade as imposing as ever. Photographers have already gathered on the steps, their cameras glinting in the afternoon sun. My stomach tightens, but not from nerves. From resolve.
Eva meets us at the stage door, her arms full of garment bags and cosmetic cases. Her smile could power the entire building.
"Finally," she says, kissing both my cheeks. "Finally, you get to tell your story, your way."
The press room has been transformed for the occasion. Two dozen chairs face a small podium adorned with microphones.Television cameras line the back wall. The scent of coffee and anticipation fill the air.
Donata arrives thirty minutes before the conference, her silver hair perfectly styled and her eyes bright with excitement. She embraces me with the warmth of a second mother.
"This is how it should have always been," she whispers in my ear. "You, in control, making the choices. Your father would be proud."
The mention of my father sends an unexpected wave of emotion through me. He never lived to see me perform, never knew I would become The Rose of Rome. But perhaps he would have understood this moment—the moment I stop being what others need and start being who I am.
At exactly three o'clock, Salvatore and I enter the press room together. The camera flashes begin immediately, a constant strobe that turns the world into fragments of light and shadow. I take my place behind the podium while he stands to my left, close enough to touch but far enough to let me command the room.
The questions begin before I finish my opening statement.
"Ms. Costa, can you confirm reports about your engagement?"
"Are you pregnant?"
"Who is the father?"
"Is this related to your departure from the opera house last month?"
I raise my hand for silence. The room settles into expectant quiet.
"I'm here to announce several significant changes in my career and personal life," I begin, my voice carrying clearly through the microphones. "First, I have declined the Rome Opera House's offer to return to their roster. Instead, I will be launching an independent production—a new opera writtenspecifically for my voice, staged outside traditional venues, with complete artistic control."
The reporters scribble frantically. Camera shutters click in rapid succession.
"Second, I can confirm that I am pregnant and will be taking maternity leave following the new production's completion." I pause, letting the announcement settle. "The father is Salvatore DeSantis, my fiancé, who is providing the funding and support for this new artistic venture."
The room erupts. Hands shoot into the air. Voices overlap in a chaos of questions about timelines and relationships and the implications for Rome's cultural landscape.
But I see beyond the noise to something larger. This moment represents more than a career announcement or pregnancy reveal. It represents the first time in my twenty-one years that I am writing my own story.
"The new opera will premiere in six months," I continue once the noise subsides. "Tickets will be available to the public, not limited to the traditional opera elite. We're committed to making this art form accessible while maintaining its integrity."
A reporter fromLa Repubblicaraises her hand. "Ms. Costa, how do you respond to critics who say you're abandoning Rome's cultural institutions?"
"I'm not abandoning anything," I reply. "I'm building something new. Something better."
After the formal questions end, Salvatore and I stand together for photographs. His hand rests lightly on my lower back, a gesture that appears protective to the cameras but feels possessive to me. The distinction no longer troubles me the way it once did.
