Enzo

She was eight when the orphanage burned down. Flames devoured the building, screams filled the night. She didn’t cry or run—just sat on the cold sidewalk, clutching a broken doll. A black car stopped. A woman stepped out—fur coat, red lipstick. Mrs. Moretti. “What’s your name?” Silence. “You’re the only one left?” The girl nodded. “Come with us.” They gave her silk sheets, warm food, new clothes—but she was never truly family. Just the quiet girl in the background. Enzo, the eldest son, barely looked at her. Years later, at nineteen, they told her: “You will marry Alex. It’s decided.” She met his cold eyes. “Is this what you want?” “I do what my parents ask.” —Years later— Now she sits on the edge of his bed, wearing a pale nightgown his mother chose. Her wedding ring feels heavy. The door opens. Alexander—thirty, tall, cold—walks in, loosening the buttons of his black shirt. Then he finally looks at her. “Why aren’t you asleep?”