Cut by the Don

Vincent stood over me, disheveled and frustrated. "Isabella, I can't get it right. The lace is snagging. You do it."

He pulled me down to the laundry room. Several ruined silk garments sat in a basin. The sight sent a fresh, searing pain through my numb heart.

Vincent, who had once refused a simple request to help me, was patiently ruining his hands for another woman.

I took over, moving with practiced ease.

Vincent watched me, and for a moment, it was almost peaceful. When the delicate items were carefully laid out to dry, he brushed a kiss on my forehead. "Thank God for you, Isabella."

Then he was gone, off to his precious Sophia, not noticing the raw skin on my knuckles from the harsh soap.

Later, scrolling through my phone, I saw Sophia's post: "My amazing hubby hand-washed my favorite lingerie! So caring!"

Vincent, who never engaged on social media, had commented with a heart emoji.

Then, a private message popped up from Sophia. "Hey hubby, miss you already! Can't wait for our trip!" It was immediately withdrawn, followed by a voice note. "Oopsies! So sorry, Isabella! Meant to send that to Vincent. Your avatars are so similar! I'll have him change his, don't want any more... mix-ups."

I didn't reply. Vincent would never change the profile picture his late mother had taken. He'd called me sentimental for even suggesting matching avatars once. I'd used a similar picture anyway, and he'd never commented. I took it as silent acceptance.

But when I refreshed his profile, it had changed. To a cartoon graphic of a couple kissing. Matching Sophia's.

My hand trembled. Five years, gone in ten days.

That night, a nightmare of cold, dark rooms and Vincent's retreating back jolted me awake.

The phone rang--the hospital director. "Dr. Rossi! It's Sophia Lombardi! The restoration you performed--there's a severe complication! Get here now!"