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Falynn
PLAYLIST: ? PAINT IT, BLACK - CIARA ?
Five years later…
“Rise and shine,dolcezza!”
Carlotta charges into the master bedroom like a bull despite her diminutive size. She’s five feet and a hundred pounds, but make no mistake, she’s not to be underestimated. She marches over to the heavy drapes covering the windows and pries them apart. The morning sunshine pours into the massive room and practically blinds me.
I squint and moodily groan my dissatisfaction. I’d much rather roll over and go back to sleep for a few hours. It wouldn’t be the first—or last—morning I’ve slept away.
But Carlotta’s not about to be ignored. She puts her hands on her slim waist and clucks her tongue. Staying in bed beyond eight a.m. is an unspeakable offense as far as she’s concerned. The longer I sleep, the more the schedule’s thrown off.
“Dolcezza,” she sighs. She plods over and starts making the bed with me in it. “You have to get up and get downstairs. Breakfast was half an hour ago.”
“I don’t want breakfast.”
“It’s part of the schedule.”
In other words, end of discussion. There’s no arguing with the schedule. Believe me, I’vetried. Any deviations must be approved, and it’s unfortunately above my pay grade. I don’t get to set schedules. I just have to follow them.
Carlotta’s a lifesaver. She keeps me believable. When I don’t have the energy to look presentable, she puts on my lipstick so I can smile. She feeds me my pills and vitamins when I get a little too down. If I’m too exhausted to even pretend, she’s ready with just the right excuse to cover our tracks.
Nobody suspects a thing. Not even my husband.
“You need to eat,” she snaps, eying me warily. “You’re losing your figure. Mr. Sorrentino doesn’t like it when you get too thin. He prefers—”
“Iknowwhat he prefers, Carlotta. He’s my husband.”
She purses her lips and lets me trudge to the bathroom without any more pestering. But the moment I come out, I’m siphoned into the vortex that is the precious schedule. I’m shown different outfits and styling options as Carlotta explains the day.
Nine a.m. is breakfast. Eleven a.m., in-house doctor’s appointment with my fertility specialist, Doctor Romano. One p.m., lunch with Carlotta. Daily workout with my trainer at three and by four start getting ready for tonight’s dinner—we’re dining with Saul Rosenbaum and other associates of his entertainment company. Your typical fanfare for a formal event, where the food is exquisitely cooked and prepared, the wives parade their finest jewelry, and the husbands go for an after-dinner smoke of cigars.
None of it is new. Though at least I won’t be alone.
It’s what’s waiting for me in the sunroom. A full-course breakfast covers the table, an obscene amount of food, from poached eggs and shaved asparagus to an assortment of freshly baked muffins. Yet every chair is empty except mine.
“He was unable to make it,” Carlotta explains unnecessarily.
The rest of the staff put last-minute touches to the sunroom, delivering fresh flowers and rearranging the jam selection.
Let the farce of a family breakfast begin.
I take my seat with a sigh and force food into my mouth. I clear my plate as preferred, though I stay silent. Carlotta does her best. She keeps me company. She indulges in a guilty cup of espresso and tells me about her grandchildren. My mood makes it difficult to pay attention, only able to listen half-heartedly.
“Dolcezza,” Carlotta hisses suddenly. Her eyes bulge as she glances from my face to my left hand. “If he knew, we willallbe in trouble.”
“It’s my hand, isn’t it? My finger. Don’t worry about it.”
Who am I kidding? I haven’t belonged to myself in years. But it doesn’t mean I won’t continue defying the rules. I’ll walk the line between obedience and defiance.
Once upon a time, I’d loved the thrill of it. The danger that I’d be punished and then pleasured. It was a game we played. If I laughed a little too eagerly at another man’s joke, he reminded me what a bad girl I’d been. It was erotic and exciting.
Now, when I break the rules, it’s out of necessity. Just so I can remember what it’s like to be myself and have a modicum of autonomy.
“Women nowadays have such different mindsets,” Carlotta says with a shake of her head. She blows away the tendrils of heat curling from her espresso cup. “It is tradition to uphold the expectations laid out for you.”
“What am I doing right now?” I ask.
