Page 10

The flight is uneventful. My driver is waiting for me at luggage claim, and soon I’m in an Upper West Side hotel suite twice the size of my apartment with a king bed, a Jacuzzi tub, a kitchen and a luxurious sitting area. Isabella isn’t just bending over backward – she’s doing triple-flips.

It’s midnight local time, so after brushing my teeth and popping off an “Arrived!” text to Marco, I fall into bed. I sleep for a few hours and then laze drowsily until the sun lights my windows.

After a quick shower, I pull clothing from my luggage to find a tiny white paper bag nestled between my folded shirts. I open it, and a string of silver rosary beads slides into my hand.

Vatican rosary beads. For my mother. Tucked into my luggage by Marco because he knew she’d asked for them, and her daughter had completely forgotten about it despite having been to Vatican City multiple times since being asked.

I joke that being half Irish, a quarter Italian and a quarter Mexican means I am one hundred and ten percent Catholic.

While I’m not the most devout follower of the faith, living in Rome means I can’t resist the allure of services at the Vatican.

I mean, it’s the Vatican . I get there maybe once a month, mostly so I can tell Mom in our weekly calls, and t hen she can casually say to her church-lady friends, “Oh, my daughter went to services at the Vatican again.”

When I’d said I was going to Easter mass, Mom mentioned she’d love a string of rosary beads.

Believe me, Easter is not the time you want to brave the gift-shop crowds.

Getting into St. Peter’s Square is challenging enough.

I’d told Marco that I needed to grab her a string on my next visit… and then promptly forgot.

I text him a thank-you as I dress, and we continue text-chatting while I get ready and head out. When he asks whether my room is okay, I come close to telling him all about it… and then realize I can’t.

So I lie. I lie, I lie and I lie again, each one heaving a brick into my guilt bag. There’s only one way to ease it off my shoulders.

Me: Hey, when I get home, I need to talk to you.

Him: That sounds ominous.

Me: LOL Sorry. It’s nothing bad.

Me: Just something we need to discuss, and if I tell you now, I can’t duck out of it.

Him: Still sounds ominous, but okay. I’ll hold you to it.

I tell him to do that, please, and then sign off as he gathers the flock for his next tour.

I consider ordering room service for breakfast, but Central Park summons me stronger.

It’s a gorgeous day, and I’m only a few blocks from Levain Bakery, which I used to walk to every Sunday morning when I went to Juilliard.

A baguette with butter and jam is calling my name, paired with fresh roasted coffee.

Real American coffee, not the “Americano” I get in Italy.

A bakery treat, an extra-large coffee and a bench in Central Park.

The perfect way to relax before I meet Isabella at three.

I thoroughly enjoy my morning. It’s the first time post-scandal that I’ve been able to walk in NYC with my head high, zero danger of being recognized. I am no longer the girl that fled. I am the woman who returned, as anonymous now as I am in Rome, and it is glorious.

Which only reminds me of what I’m about to do this afternoon.

Unmask myself to the one person who can destroy me again.

I have questioned whether Isabella genuinely wants to apologize but only because I suspect it’s more self-interest than altruism.

In the wake of the scandal, Colt’s career exploded.

Exploded, not imploded. He was a man, after all, slave to testosterone, and clearly, I took advantage of that.

To the average fan, I’d tried to ruin his career, and by God, they weren’t going to let that happen.

The scandal only meant increased attention and sympathy for Colt, especially after his PR machine got hold of the story.

For Isabella, though… It’s one thing for a husband to stray. Boys will be boys, and all that. For the woman he cheated on, the sympathy leans dangerously close to pity, underscored by whispered innuendo. Why had Colt strayed? Was she so wrapped up in her own career that he felt neglected?

Isabella had been bumped as showrunner on her telenovela.

They said it had nothing to do with the scandal.

Of course, it did. When the series later failed, they blamed her, ignoring the fact that the male showrunner took her concept and steamrolled over it.

After failing to reestablish h erself, she started script doctoring, which meant she could easily support herself, but to the average person, her career had failed, her name no longer in the credits.

What if she’s still smarting from that? I have recovered from the scandal, and she has not. What if she wants revenge?

What if she lured me here to expose me? What if I walk into that room and find cameras poised to record Isabella Morales’s final takedown of Lucy Callahan?

It is perfect reality-TV fodder. Wife wronged in the most famous celebrity scandal of the last two decades confronts the woman who ruined her career.

Fourteen years ago, people had been ready to paint Isabella Morales with the same brush they’d used on Hilary Clinton – a strong woman who “let” her husband stray with a young employee.

Now, though, in the era of #MeToo, audiences are more ready to realize they’re laying the blame in the wrong place.

Of course, I could hope they’d lay it where it belongs – at the foot of the forty-year-old man who seduced a teenage girl – but I don’t think we’re there yet.

By the time I walk from the park to my hotel, I am convinced I’m being led into a trap. So what do I do about that? Run back to Rome, pack my things and flee into the night? Absolutely not. I came here to fight, and if that’s what Isabella wants, that’s what she’ll get.

When the car service pulls up to our meeting place, I know I am truly heading into war. Isabella has chosen her battleground with care.

Do you remember this hotel, Lucy?

Do you remember that weekend?

Oh, yes, I remember it very well.