I took my mother's belongings and returned to our house in the suburbs.

Lorenzo and I had moved out of the Moretti estate right after we got our marriage license.

Just as I finished cooking, Lorenzo and Isabella walked in, holding Lina's hands.

Lorenzo saw me in the kitchen and strode over, taking the dish I was holding.

"Why did you leave when I went back this afternoon?" he asked.

"You were busy. Don't worry about me," I replied.

A hollow feeling settled in Lorenzo's chest. He paused, about to say something, but then Isabella entered the kitchen.

"Vivian, let me help," Isabella said with a smile.

"Alright."

I handed her a platter.

Just then, my mother-in-law, Sofia, arrived. She rushed forward and took the hot dish from Isabella's hands.

"Oh, careful, don't touch that! What if you burn yourself? These hands have to perform delicate surgeries…"

Isabella said sheepishly, "I just saw how busy Vivian was…"

"It's fine. This is what she does."

My hand froze for a split second.

Lorenzo frowned. When he came back into the kitchen, he leaned in and whispered, "My mom doesn't mean anything by it."

I smiled. "I know."

She was just worried about the hands that had been trained in Europe to hold a scalpel.

And she just genuinely believed that this was all I was good for.

Once the food was on the table, Lina pulled Isabella and Lorenzo to sit on either side of her.

Lorenzo instinctively pulled out the chair next to him and looked at me.

In that moment, a flicker of determination crossed his face, as if he feared I would refuse.

I pretended not to notice and sat down beside him.

The corner of his mouth curved up slightly as he placed a piece of pasta on my plate.

Lina pouted, jabbing at her plate with her fork, clearly displeased.

"Bitch…" she mouthed at me.

I ignored her.

"Lorenzo, do you remember Lake Geneva in Switzerland?"

Isabella suddenly started reminiscing about the two years they spent at an elite boarding school in Europe.

It was there that a sixteen-year-old Lorenzo fell for the nineteen-year-old Isabella at first sight.

Of course, back then, the proud princess hadn't been interested in her stoic, cold junior.

Those two years seemed to be the happiest and most memorable of Lorenzo's life.

Soon, a gentle smile appeared on his face, and he started talking more.

I could never join in on these conversations. I just ate my food in silence.

As they talked, Isabella switched to French.

I knew she was doing it on purpose.

She probably thought that I was the only one at the table who didn't speak French; even four-year-old Lina could manage a few words.

But what they didn't know was that two years ago, I was already helping my professor translate French documents. I just couldn't be bothered with these petty games.

It was just like every time she deliberately brought Lorenzo to the deli. It was awkward for me, yes, but I was never afraid of her. I was afraid of my relationship with Lorenzo being exposed, of his reputation being tarnished.

After all, the Moretti family had raised me for several years. I couldn't ruin the family's sole heir just because of an unhappy marriage.

The entire dining room echoed with Isabella's laughter.

Europe was Isabella's time to shine, a collection of shared memories with Lorenzo.

Whenever she reached an exciting part of a story, Lorenzo would watch her quietly, a soft smile on his lips.

A hidden light flickered in his eyes.

It was joy, admiration.

It was the way a man looks at a woman.

The old Godfather, Antonio, cleared his throat loudly, interrupting their conversation.

"Eat."

Only then did Lorenzo realize his lapse in composure.

He turned to me and put another piece of food on my plate.

Once again, I saw that thing in his eyes called guilt…

Yes, every time his mind wandered, he would feel guilty towards me.

A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I rushed to the bathroom.

I really couldn't hold it back that time.

After emptying my stomach, I turned around to find Lorenzo holding out a handkerchief.

I didn't take it. "No, thank you."

He awkwardly stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.