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“Whatever you do,” she says, “don’t go on Instagram. Or any gossip blog, really.”
“What are you talking about?” I grab my phone and bring up my feed. My eyes widen at the dozens of notifications. I’ve been tagged and mentioned in dozens of posts and reels. All of them referencing me, but more horrifyingly, Giovanni.
But not just Giovanni. Some wannabe Instagram model by the name of Sofia. I scroll through my notification list and tap on the original mention that started this. It’s some Live of Sofia doing a Q&A with her thousands of followers. My heart pounds faster as I sit and watch.
“You guys are going to get me in sooo much trouble!” she giggles coyly. She holds her phone out as she walks through her apartment, subtly showing off the spacious living room and then moving into her bedroom. Perched on her bed are designer shopping bags. She brushes her long, chestnut strands from her face and then bites her lip. Her gaze shifts from the camera to the shopping bags and back again. “Guess who got me these?”
Her followers react with a slew of comments and emojis, egging her on to spill the rest of her tea. Though she pretends as if she’s reluctant, the shine in her green eyes tells a different story.
“Okay, but you better not judge me! Me and Amber went to Saul Rosenbaum’s party just to network. You know howthatgoes.”
More reactions flood her comment section. A couple detractors come in and accuse Sofia of being an escort, looking for a come up.
“I was thinking maybe I’ll meet some actor or I can live out my groupie fantasy,” she says salaciously, giggling some more. “But I didnotexpect to meet Giovanni Sorrentino. He is even hotter in person! I’m sure by now you guys have seen the photo we snapped together.”
She doesn’t even pretend to search for it—it’s already pulled up on her phone. The image flashes on the screen with her, a photo of her sitting on Giovanni’s lap. Her arms are slung around his broad shoulder and she’s leaning close to his ear. Her comment sectionexplodes, her viewers going crazy with reaction emojis and comments.
I’m stunned, so shocked I can’t move. But I can feel. It’s sickness mixed with heartbreak and a stinging sense of betrayal. If it’s not my heart aching or my stomach churning, it’s my cheeks feeling hot like I’ve been slapped across the face.
You’d think I’d look away. I’d spare myself staring at the photo of my husband and this woman seated intimately together at the industry party he wouldn’t take me to. I just can’t bring myself to, subjecting myself to every second of the torture and the pain.
Sofia’s not done. She stops sharing her screen and returns the camera to her gleeful, smirking face.
“Let’s just say, it was areallygood night.” She bursts into more laughs and then turns to the phone to shopping bags again—Gucci, Prada, Hermes. All full of merchandise from her recent shopping spree. “He sure knows how to treat a girl.”
“Fal, shut that shit off right now,” comes Tasha’s voice from the FaceTime app on my MacBook. “That bitch is lying and you know it. And if she’s not, who cares?”
I snap my head in the direction of my MacBook. “Who cares if she’s not?Icare!”
“All I’m saying is you shouldn’t get upset over it. Giovanni’s a powerful man. You’ve had enough experience at clubs like the Dollhouse to know how men like him move. The married ones are the worst. They almost always have a side or two.”
“This might be hard for you to understand, Tash, because all you care about is money, but I actually love him!” I snap coldly, a rarity between Tasha and me. “I care if he’s unfaithful. I can’t do this with you right now. I’ll talk to you later.”
Sometimes Tasha’s realness can be a little too real. Now is one of those times. The last thing I need to hear, at a time where I’m already wound tightly, weighed down by debilitating feelings I can’t describe, is that my husband is seeking out other women.
That he’scheatingon me. Some other random could be spoiled by him, have ababyby him. If it were ever to be true, I don’t know if I’d survive. I truly don’t know if I could handle it. But what if Tasha and Rochelle are right?
Am I dying a slow death, suffocating myself in this life day by day when it’s inevitable what may happen?
I have an expiration date…
The cold, hard reality bites into me and forces another sob out of me. I don’t give a fuck how pitiful I look on the floor, tears streaked down my cheeks, with my bottle of wine. I don’t care if he finds out I’ve disobeyed him.
Let him find me like this. Let him see what he’s done to me.
If he even cares at all.
