Page 28

ROSARIA

T he opera house greets me as if I never left.

The marble floors gleam under afternoon light, and familiar voices echo through rehearsal rooms. I walk down corridors I know by heart, past posters where my face once smiled from every wall.

Now there are only a few scattered remnants—my image replaced by Alba's newest publicity shots.

Luca's office door stands open. He doesn't look up when I enter, his attention fixed on papers spread across his desk. The silence grows until he finally raises his head, with a neutral and cold expression. "Sit."

I take the chair across from him and wait. The clock on his wall ticks through seconds that feel endless.

"The board barely approved your reinstatement," he says finally. "Emilio made the decision for them."

My hands remain folded in my lap. I expected this.

"You'll have a role in next month's production of Tosca . Second soprano. Limited appearances."

Second soprano. In a production where I should be carrying the lead. The insult burns, but I swallow it.

"I understand."

"Do you?" His voice sharpens. "Because I'm not sure you understand anything anymore. You disappear for ten days, you miss rehearsals and you cost this house credibility and money."

I meet his gaze and say nothing.

"If you step out of line again—if you miss a single rehearsal, if you cause any more scandal—the board will drop you. And Emilio will let it happen."

The threat settles between us. I nod once.

"Good. Rehearsals begin Monday. Don't be late."

I stand and leave like the good soldier I am, trained to obey orders, and already, I'm regretting my choice of leaving Salvatore behind.

My heart aches to have only the best of both worlds, but my circumstances won't ever allow that.

I will be forced to choose, and when I do, it will hurt like hell.

The Costa estate welcomes me back as if my absence were nothing more than a brief vacation.

The same guards nod at the gates. The same servants move through familiar routines.

Everything appears unchanged, but I feel the shift in how they watch me now—careful glances, whispered conversations that stop when I pass.

Rocco was waiting at my apartment when I returned after rehearsal, and there was no way I could avoid him or the orders my uncle gave him. Now I know I'll be watched more carefully. There won't be any more sneaking out or spiriting away to see Salvatore.

Emilio waits in the main sitting room, a glass of wine in his hand and evening papers spread before him.

He looks up when I enter. His smile is sharp and cold as he says, "There she is.

My wayward niece, returned to the fold." I remain standing near the doorway.

"Sit down, Rosaria. We need to discuss your future. "

I take the chair farthest from him, easing into it carefully. My palms are sweating, but I don't wipe them on my skirt to dry them. It would only show him how terrified I am of his reaction.

"Your little adventure is over," he continues.

"I hope you've learned something about responsibility.

About honor. About what happens when you forget who you are and where you come from.

" His words carry the weight of disappointment, as if I've brought shame instead of carrying his name to international stages.

"You've damaged your reputation. You've damaged mine.

But we can rebuild—if you remember your place. "

I nod because he expects it but not because I agree with him.

Heavy sadness washes over my entire soul as I sink under the tone his voice holds.

He thinks it's over, that I have turned my back on Salvatore, and while I left the DeSantis estate, I truly hope it's not over.

My heart is a jumble of emotions—devotion to my family line, affection for someone I can't have, fear over making the wrong choice.

"No more scandals. No more disappearances. You'll perform when and where I tell you. You'll appear at events that benefit the family. You'll remember that everything you are exists because I allow it."

"Yes, Uncle."

"Good. Dinner is at eight. I expect you there."

I stand and head toward the door with a heavy heart and heavier footsteps.

"Rosaria."

I turn back with arched eyebrows, wondering if now is when he blows up, if now is when he screams at me or slaps me or tells me what a horrible, unruly woman I am. But he doesn't.

"Welcome home," he says with a most sardonic smile, and I shudder at how cold he acts toward me.

I don't go to dinner. I don't leave my room for the rest of the evening. When Donata knocks, I ignore her. When servants bring food, I send them away. I sit by the window and watch Rome spread out below me, its lights twinkling in the distance.

My phone buzzes once, then again. Messages I don't read. Calls I don't answer.

The days that follow blur together. I attend rehearsals at the opera house, sing my limited parts, and return to the estate. I speak to no one unless required. I avoid Eva's concerned looks and skip meals until my dresses begin to feel loose.

But when I open my closet on Thursday morning and find my performance gowns restored—neatly pressed and hanging in perfect rows, as if they never left—I know this peace won't last. Neither will my silence.

The gowns mock me from their hangers. Crimson silk, midnight velvet, ivory satin—each one a costume for the role I'm expected to play. The dutiful niece. The grateful artist. The woman who knows her place.

I close the closet door and turn away with nothing more than calm sadness filling my chest. I came back to this willingly. I have to remind myself of that. And the reason was because when I sing, I feel alive. So why does it feel like I'm dying now?

That night, sleep refuses to come. I walk circles around my room, from window to door to bed and back again.

My stomach churns, too sick to consider food, too restless to lie down.

Everything around me—the estate, the dresses, the roles I'm given—feels less than a home and more than a prison.

A gilded cage where I'm expected to sing on command.

I want my career back. I need it. But I can feel it slipping away no matter what I choose. Stay here and accept scraps, or leave and lose everything I've worked for.

After midnight, I retrieve my phone from the nightstand drawer. My fingers hesitate over the screen before I find Salvatore's number and press call.

He answers on the second ring.

"Rosaria."

His steady voice reaches through the darkness, familiar and comforting to my aching heart. I close my eyes and sink onto the edge of my bed. "I can't sleep."

"Are you alright?" The question almost breaks me. When was the last time someone asked that and actually wanted to hear the answer?

"No." Silence follows, but it doesn't feel empty. It feels patient.

"Tell me," Salvatore whispers, and I wish his arms could wrap around me now. I wish I could stay with him, yet sing on my stage and not lose what makes me… me.

"They gave me a role," I say finally. "Second soprano in Tosca . After everything I've done for that house, after every review, every sold-out performance… they're treating me as if I'm grateful for scraps."

"You could've stayed here." His reminder bites me, though I don't react. I know he is offering me hope, but it doesn’t feel like hope.

"My career would've been over."

"I would've protected you." His tone shifts, and I feel sad that he thinks I'm ungrateful.

"From what? From losing the only thing I've ever been good at? The only thing that's ever been mine?"

Another pause.

"I respect that," he says quietly. "Your voice, your talent—those belong to you. But Emilio will only hurt you more if he discovers the truth about the baby."

The baby. The secret I carry alone, growing inside me while I pretend nothing has changed.

Salvatore is right. If Emilio discovers I'm pregnant, everything changes permanently, and probably not for the good.

I press my hand there as I ask him, "Say encouraging words to me.

.." And I curl up on my bed as he begins to tell me of a life we could have together if I slip away one last time.

If only my heart could believe in miracles.