THE PILOT’S EX WIFE

01

Slap!

As my mother-in-law Cecilia's heavy hand collides with my face, a searing pain shoots through my cheek, jolting my head to the side. A surge of redness flushes my skin, intensifying the agony.

Struggling to maintain my balance, I stumble backward, eventually collapsing onto the softness of the bed behind me. Instinctively, my hand darts to my throbbing cheek, the pain radiating through every fiber of my being.

"You pathetic excuse for a woman," she sneers, her words dripping with contempt. "My son's birthday is in two days, and you dare to show such incompetence by not having the party prepared?"

She towers above me, her presence intimidating. Cecilia embodies the essence of Italian aristocracy, her tall, slender figure accentuated by a sharp nose and angular features.

"I've hired a party planner," I retort.

"As a Del Vecchio, you should be capable of organizing a celebration yourself!" Her words are laced with venom, each syllable dripping with disdain as she delivers her cutting remark.

"Yes, Cecilia. I am sorry," I reply, forcing a tight smile to conceal my frustration. "I will be sure to organize the next party entirely on my own."

With an air of superiority, she turns on her heel and marches out of the room, her footsteps reverberating loudly against the polished marble floor. "For heaven's sake, what possessed my Ettore to marry you?"

I am left standing there, feeling the weight of her scorn like a heavy chain around my neck. Despite my best efforts to brush off her cruel remarks, they linger like a dark cloud over my already troubled mind.

What if she's right?

What if I am not living up to the expectations of being a Del Vecchio?

As her footsteps fade into the distance, leaving behind an oppressive silence, the doubt festers, twisting my stomach into knots.

I let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of Cecilia's departure settling over me like a suffocating blanket. With a resigned sense of duty, I lower myself to the floor and reach beneath the bed, my fingers fumbling in the darkness until they brush against something cool and solid.

Drawing it out into the muted light filtering through the curtains, I am met with the sight of Ettore's birthday gift: a meticulously crafted miniature racing car.

As I hold the miniature car in my hands, a rush of excitement floods over me, momentarily dispelling the heaviness of Cecilia's departure. In just two days, she'll be on her way back to Italy, leaving me to revel in the solitude of our lavish apartment once more.

With eager anticipation, I examine the intricately crafted details of the car, marveling at how perfectly it captures Ettore's love for speed and adventure. Each sleek curve and polished finish is a testament to his passion, and I can't wait to see the delight on his face when he unwraps his birthday present.

He's one of the world's most famous race car drivers, and this gift will surely suit him well.

Ding.

The elevator reaches the penthouse. Ettore has arrived!

I bolt out of the room, heart pounding with anticipation. It's been weeks since he's been traveling, and I can barely remember the last time he was home. But this time, he's here for the entire week.

I cling to the hope that he'll have some time for me amidst his busy schedule of training, working out, racing, or attending meetings.

Despite having to endure Cecilia's presence, I know it will all be worth it if Ettore can just spare me a moment of his attention.

As I hasten toward the living room, a woman's voice pierces the air, causing me to halt in my tracks.

"Are you certain your wife won't object?" The sound of her voice is accompanied by the subtle fragrance of sweet perfume, swirling through the house like a haunting melody.

My steps falter, and I instinctively retreat into the shadows of the hallway, heart pounding with unease.

"This isn't her damn house, it's mine. And you're here at my invitation," he retorts.

This isn't my home?

I look down at the tiny racing car clutched in my trembling hands. Ettore Del Vecchio, the esteemed Formula 1 driver, holds the keys to this extravagant place, while I am nothing more than his trophy wife, a mere adornment to his illustrious life.

That's all I am, in his eyes and in the eyes of the world.

"But I am your ex-girlfriend. People might gossip..." The woman's words, laden with insinuation, pierce through the air like icy shards, lodging themselves deep within my heart. "Forget it. I am just another guest, as you said. Is there a spare room for me?"

Ex-girlfriend?

So, that voice belonged to Ana Lucca?

A surge of anguish washes over me as the realization sinks in. I recall reading snippets of news about her, the mere thought of her stirring up a potent blend of jealousy and insecurity within me.

Yet, despite my silent fears, I trusted Ettore's assurances that Ana was a relic of the past. All I ever demanded was his fidelity, and he swore to uphold it.

"I will have one arranged," Ettore replies tersely.

The footsteps gradually recede into the distance, leaving behind an eerie silence that echoes through the corridors.

My heart twists in agony as the betrayal unfolds before me. Tears blur my vision as I stagger backward, my hand sliding down the wall for support.

"Baby... can I ask you for something?" Ana's voice, tinged with a hint of vulnerability, reaches my ears like a knife twisting in my gut. "It's pouring outside, and the thunder scares me. Could I sleep in your room tonight? I will make do with just a sheet on the floor."

I feel the impulse to dash towards them and declare that no, Ana will never sleep in Ettore's bed. I, his wife, have never occupied that space. Whenever Ettore sought me out, it was always in my room. He never desired us to share a bed.

"You don't have to fret. There's space for you in the bed," he reassures, and with those words, I hear his footsteps climbing the stairs.

Collapsing to my knees, I clutch at my hair, fingers tangling in the strands as if to anchor myself to reality. The weight of Ettore's deception crushes me, leaving me gasping for air amidst the wreckage of our shattered marriage.

Every sound of their exchange feels like a cruel echo of my own naivety, a reminder that I was nothing more than a pawn in his game. As Ettore's footsteps echo up the stairs, each one carries the weight of our broken trust.

Ettore never loved me!

I mean, he was an Italian pilot who needed a green card to live permanently here in the United States. He was about to close a big contract and needed the visa as soon as possible.

I was the janitor at the racetrack, and when his personal assistant made me an offer: 10 million to marry Ettore Del Vecchio, I couldn't refuse. First and foremost, I desperately needed the money. My mother had just passed away, and I was drowning in hospital debts. Alone in the world, I had no one to turn to.

And secondly, I was Ettore's biggest fan. The opportunity to marry him gave me hope to live a fairy tale. Me, a humble girl, entering into marriage with the prince charming, being happy forever.

What a fool!

**

The relentless rain in Los Angeles mirrors the turmoil in my heart as I shuffle towards the kitchen. Each drop that splatters against the windowpane echoes the tears I've shed since discovering the bitter truth about my three-year marriage — a illusion crumbling before my eyes.

As I step into the kitchen, I take in the warm greeting from Jena, the cook. "Good morning, love. I will make the coffee today," she offers with a smile.

I shake my head, mustering a small smile of gratitude. "No, thank you, Jena. I will take care of it," I reply softly.

She nods understandingly and exits the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the soothing sound of rain tapping against the windows.

Tomorrow is Ettore's 32nd birthday, and I can't help but feel a spark of excitement. Despite everything, there's a glimmer of hope as I anticipate the big celebration.

These gatherings always have a certain charm to them, especially when Ettore wraps his arm around my waist, if only for the cameras. It's those fleeting moments that make me believe in the facade of our love, if only for a little while.

I prepare two cups of coffee and start making toast.

The heavy thud of footsteps echoes down the staircase, sending a shiver down my spine. I know it's my husband, Ettore, making his descent.