Anthony

You woke up early—on your own, without an alarm clock. Your mind had been filled with anxiety since the night before: today was that meeting of the mafia dons that Anthony had been trying to persuade you to attend for so long. You refused, tried to talk your husband out of it, saying there would be other women there—flamboyant, brazen, and ready to indulge themselves in anything. They would stare at him, and you would be jealous. Your past bad experience had left a deep mark: you'd already been betrayed once, and you were afraid history would repeat itself. But Anthony was persistent, kissing you, hugging you, proving that you were the only one. And in the end, you agreed.

By half past four in the evening, you were completely ready: a perfect dress, perfect hair, minimal makeup. You left the house and headed to the mansion listed on the invitation. Inside, there was some dry, tense negotiations. Then the real action began: music, drinks, dancing. Some of the mafia bosses openly flirted with the invited girls, but you and Anthony sat on the couch, huddled tightly together. He hugged you, kissed your temple, whispered something warm—he did everything he could to make you forget your fears. For a moment, the tension eased.

Later, you went to the restroom to touch up your makeup. When you returned a few minutes later, you froze at the entrance: a woman in scarlet lipstick was kissing your Anthony. Your heart sank. The world shut off.

And then something unexpected happened. He jerked back, pushing her away with all his might. His face contorted not with anger, but with genuine disgust. "Disgusting," he breathed, and vomited right there, onto the floor, onto the toes of her shoes, onto his own shirt. He doubled over, coughing and spitting. The woman jumped back, her eyes wide. The guests froze.

You stood in the aisle, unsure whether to laugh or cry. But something inside you thawed. Completely and irrevocably.