Page 2 of Veiled Vows

For the past couple of months, a nagging doubt has been growing in my mind. Despite how perfect everything appears, something feels off in my marriage. There are moments when Salvatore seems distant, his affection feeling rehearsed. I’ve tried to brush it off, telling myself I’m reading too much into things, but the worry won’t leave me.

It's rare to hear those three words from Salvatore. "I love you." They seem to stick in his throat. Instead, he mumbles a quick "me too" whenever I tell him I do. I always chalked it up to him not being the most affectionate. The seed of doubt they’ve planted begins to grow, winding its way around my heart, squeezing tight. What if they’re right?

The bathroom door slams shut behind them as they leave, and only then do I exit the stall. I adjust my perfectly styled hair, a shade lighter than my natural color, because I thought he would like it better.

A bitter taste fills my mouth as I reapply my lipstick. I shake off my anxiety and smooth down my dress before rejoining the party. This is not the time to break down.

Pulling myself together, I slip back into my act, my eyes scanning the crowd for Salvatore. The words I overheard still hurt, but I push them aside.

I spot him near the bar, talking to a couple I recognize from various social events. His intimidating presence is impossible to miss. I watch him for a moment, analyzing him in a different light. His interactions with others are so smooth, so effortless. He’s a magnet to everyone here, men want to be him, and women pray for a glance from him. I can’t help but wonder, though, how much of him is genuine, and how much is as manufactured as the persona I’ve been pressured to take on?

He catches my eye and calls me over with a slight nod. I walk towards him with my head held high. As I approach, he slips an arm around my waist, giving it a squeeze.

"Ah, there she is," Salvatore says. "Serena, I was just telling Charles and Sofia about your recent achievement."

I smile politely at the couple, my mind still reeling. "Good evening," I say, proud that my voice comes out steady.

"Congratulations on passing your bar exam, Serena," Charles says, shaking my hand.

"Thank you," I reply, forcing a smile.

Sofia nods, her eyes flicking between Salvatore and me. "You must be so proud, Salvatore," she says. "A lawyer in the family—how wonderful."

Salvatore's eyes narrow as Charles's handshake stays for a second too long. He subtly pulls my hand away from Charles's grasp, placing a kiss on it instead. "Absolutely," Salvatore responds. "Serena is truly remarkable."

The conversation continues, but my mind drifts. I start to notice the little things—Salvatore's body language, the way his smile never quite reaches his eyes. It's as if the veil has been lifted from my eyes.

"Serena," Sofia says, snapping me back to the present. "Are you planning to practice law, or do you have other plans?"

I hesitate, my memorized answer feeling hollow now. "I'm still exploring my options," I say finally, glancing at Salvatore. "But for now, I'm focusing on our family’s business."

"That's wonderful," Charles says, raising his glass. "To Serena and her bright future."

We all clink glasses. I take a sip of champagne, the bubbles doing nothing to lift the heaviness in my chest. Salvatore's hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, burning my skin through the dress.

As the couple moves on to mingle with other guests, Salvatore turns to me, his expression softening slightly as he pecks my lips. This would have made my heart flutter normally. Now, it feels like an act.

I gesture for him to join a group of men eager to speak to him and head towards a more secluded area. I can’t wait for this to be over. Just as I’m about to relax, I see my mother walking my way, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. I can’t catch a fucking break.

"Serena," she says, her voice a low murmur that carries so much expectation. "Come with me."

She guides me to a small alcove away from the main party. My mother turns to face me, her eyes narrowing as she takes in my appearance.

"Your dress is lovely," she begins, her tone almost approving. "But there are a few things we need to talk about."

I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. This isn't the first time I've been subjected to one of my mother's "reviews." I brace myself, trying to keep my expression neutral.

"Your posture," she says, tapping a finger against my back. "Straighten up, dear. You don't want to look slouched, especially not tonight."

I adjust my stance, feeling the tension in my shoulders as I comply.

"And your tummy," she says, her gaze dropping to my midsection. "Are you going to the gym regularly? It looks like you've got a bit of a belly."

My cheeks burn with shame. "I've been trying, but it’s hard to find time."

"Make time," she insists. "You need to maintain your figure. It's crucial, especially considering your position."

Position. The role I've been groomed to play. My mother's relentless focus on physical perfection, on maintaining appearances, feels like another piece of the puzzle falling into place. Had she and my father truly shaped me, molded me, to fit into Salvatore's world?

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