His questions came rapid, stacked, each one louder than the last. The nausea rolled through me, but it wasn't the surgery. It was the sound of a man who believed his anger was the most important thing in the room. I wasn't in the mood to argue. I brushed past him, grabbed my suitcase, and headed for the door.
His hand closed around my arm. The grip was firm, the kind of hold he'd learned from years of grabbing men by the collar in back rooms and expecting them to stay grabbed. "Is this some kind of game to you? I told you I'd cut ties with her after the baby. I've made sacrifices for you. What more do you want me to do?"
His shameless words hit me, and I couldn't hold back any longer. I slapped him. The sound cracked through the quiet street like a gunshot, and for one frozen second, neither of us moved.
"Stop ruining your real relationship for me. You know what? Your right hand is correct. Just do what you really want."
"I'm not worth it, right? You should find someone better."
"I sent you the divorce papers. Don't forget to sign them as soon as possible."
I broke free and walked out. My arm burned where his fingers had been, but my legs were steady. The suitcase wheels clattered against the flagstone path, and behind me, his voice followed like a threat he didn't know how to make good on.
"Stay, or I won't take you back when you come crawling!"
Come back? Not a chance. Honestly, I should have been thanking him. This had made me realize I'd be better off without the Valente name, the Valente house, and every poisoned thing that came with both.
When I got home, my parents were waiting in the front room. The lamps were on, the curtains drawn. My father sat in his chair by the window with the stillness of a man who'd already heard the worst and was deciding what to do about it. My mother's eyes were red. She'd been crying.
When I told them about Simone's arrangement with Silvana, about the secret heir, about what it meant for the alliance between our families, my mother pulled me in for a tight hug. Her arms shook. "I told you," she whispered into my hair. "I told you he'd only hurt you."
My father was quiet for a long moment. The clock on the mantel ticked. Outside, a car passed on the street, its headlights sweeping briefly across the drawn curtains.
"Good riddance," he said finally.