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I should have known. Should have seen it sooner. She packed her bags in a matter of weeks and moved halfway across the world to a place she didn’t even remember calling home. She’s been isolated from the outside world, and she has no real contact with people aside from Tony and Emily.

“But I make do with what I have. I’ve seen a few restaurants I want to try soon.” She lightens her previous words.

I shouldn’t be listening. I should turn away and leave her to her call, but I don’t. Instead, I remain in the shadows, unmoving, listening to a conversation that isn’t meant for me.

Then, her voice changes—bright, forced, like a mask slipping into place. “Yes, Mamá. Matteo is good to me. The marriage is good.”

Her voice is steady, her lie effortless.The marriage is good. But the words sink into me like a blade, slow and twisting. How many times has she told this lie? How many times has she forced herself to believe it? The truth? Our marriage is nothing but a cage made of gold, and she’s still learning how to survive in it. I wonder how much of our life together Maria has sanitized for her family’s sake. How much of the truth she’s hidden behind reassurances and half-truths?

“I should go,” Maria says softly. “I love you, Mamá. Give Papá my love.”

There’s a moment of silence, and I know the call has ended. I should leave, retreat to my study, and prepare for my trip before she discovers me eavesdropping. But my feet remain rooted to the spot, my hand hovering near the door.

I hear a soft sniffle from inside the room, and something in my chest constricts. Before I can stop myself, I’m pushing the door open, stepping into Maria’s sanctuary.

She’s curled up on the chaise lounge, her phone clutched to her chest, eyes glistening with unshed tears. For a moment, she doesn’t notice me, lost in her own world of homesickness and longing. Then her gaze snaps to mine, and I watch as she straightens, composing herself with practiced ease.

“Matteo,” she says, her voice steady despite the moisture in her eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

I stand there, feeling like an intruder in this intimate moment. The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we never say.

“How much did you hear?” she finally asks a hint of resignation in her tone.

I consider lying, but something in her vulnerable posture makes me pause. “Enough,” I admit, my voice low.

“I see.” She nods in understanding.

“Come with me,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended.

Her brows furrow. “Where?”

I don’t answer. I just turn and start walking, knowing she’ll follow.

Maria follows me in silence as I lead her down the hall, through the grand corridors of our home. I don’t say a word as I push open a set of heavy double doors and step inside. This is something I had commissioned when we first made our way back to the States.

She hesitates on the threshold, her eyes flickering with curiosity before she finally steps in.

Her breath catches—sharp and audible, like she’s been struck. The room is bathed in golden light, and for the first time, I see something in her eyes I rarely do: wonder. Her fingers graze the art supplies with the kind of reverence that belongs to something sacred. She turns to me, her lips parting slightly as if trying to find the words. But she doesn’t need to. I see it in her eyes.

Canvases lean against the walls, some blank, some filled with soft brushstrokes of unfinished work. A massive easel stands in the center of the room, flanked by shelves of art supplies—paints, brushes, charcoals—all untouched, waiting for her.

Her fingers trail over the edge of the wooden table, tracing the outlines of the tools before turning to me, eyes wide with something I can’t quite name.

“Wha—what is this?” She gestures to the room.

“This is your new studio. I figured, since I have a study, you would want your own creative space here.”

“You… you did this?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I shift my weight, suddenly feeling out of place. “You’re always drawing and your father mentioned your love for arts.”

She blinks as if trying to process my words. Then, cautiously, she steps further into the room, walking slowly as if afraid she’ll wake from a dream.

I watch her, something unfamiliar twisting in my chest.

“I thought maybe if you had something of your own here,” I say, watching her fingers brush against the smooth wood of the easel, “it wouldn’t feel so much like a prison.”

Maria’s eyes widen at my words, her hand stilling on the easel. She turns to face me, her expression a mix of surprise and something else I can’t quite decipher. For a moment, we stand in silence, the weight of my admission hanging between us.