Page 34 of Porcelain Lies

I wait until her ride arrives and she drives away, then I yank my purse from the passenger seat and slam the car door. My heels strike the pavement with purpose as I march toward the building’s entrance.

The doorman’s eyes widen as I approach. “Miss Fermont—”

I blow past him, jabbing the elevator button repeatedly.

The elevator seems to crawl between floors. Each second that drags by only adds to my fury. By the time the doors glide open to his floor, I’m in a red rage.

I pound on his door, each strike echoing my heartbeat. The lock clicks, and there he stands, hair tousled, chest still bare, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin.

“Stella?Tesoro, what are you—?”

“Save it.” My voice comes out sharp as glass. “I just watched your little goodbye scene on the balcony.”

His face shifts — surprise, then calculation, then that practiced innocent expression I now realize I’ve seen too many times before. “Oh, that was just my trainer. We were doing—”

“Your trainer? Does she always leave wearing Prada and carrying a Chanel clutch?”

“Cara, you’re being—”

“I talked to her yesterday.” The words slice through his excuses. “On your phone. When you were supposed to be at my charity event.”

He runs a hand through his hair — another familiar gesture that now makes my skin crawl. “Tesoro, let me explain—”

“Don’t call me that.” I step closer, forcing him back. “How long?”

“What?”

“How. Long?” Each word drops like ice.

“Stella, you’re overreacting. This isn’t—”

“Three months? Six? The whole time we were engaged?” My voice rises with each question. “While I was planning our wedding? While I was looking at houses with you?”

I don’t need answers to these questions; she already gave them to me. I just want to watch him squirm as he lies.

His eyes dart past me to the hallway, checking if anyone can hear. Always so concerned with appearances.

“Keep your voice down. Let’s discuss this like adults.”

The patronizing tone in his voice ignites something in me. All those months of subtle manipulation, of making me question myself, of promises that now ring hollow — they crystallize into pure fury.

“Like adults?” I laugh, the sound harsh and foreign. “Was it adult to play us both? To let me plan a future while you were building one with her?”

His face hardens. “You’re making a scene.”

“Good.” I meet his gaze, refusing to let him make me feel small again. “I saw the real you today, Gianni. Finally.”

I watch his lips move, spewing excuses that sound rehearsed, practiced. Like he’s given this speech before to other women.

“You have to understand,cara. Men have certain… needs. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” His hands gesture expansively, like he’s explaining something obvious to a child. “These things happen in marriages all the time. The smart wives understand and look the other way.”

Is he fucking serious?

My stomach turns. “Is that what she does? Looks the other way?”

“Don’t be crude.” He straightens his shoulders, that familiar condescending expression settling on his face. “Besides, you’re being rather ungrateful considering everything I’ve given you. The lifestyle, the connections for your little charity events—”

The word “ungrateful” hits me like a slap. Heat rises in my cheeks as memories flash through my mind — all the timeshe’s lorded his wealth over me, used it to make me feel small, dependent.

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