Giulia’s fingers stayed in mine for a beat too long, as if she needed physical proof that what she’d just heard was real. Her face didn’t change dramatically—she was too practiced for that—but something in her eyes tightened, the way a door clicks when it locks.
Matteo cleared his throat. “Sofia—” he began, the Italian version of my name slipping out like a reflex.
I released Giulia’s hand gently. “We should go,” I said, still in Italian, still calm. Then, to Matteo in English, “It’s late.”
His jaw flexed. “Can we talk outside?”
In the driveway, the night air felt sharp enough to cut. Matteo stood by the passenger side of his car, hands on his hips, staring at the ground like the concrete could explain him.
“You… you understood all of that?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “All of it.”
His face flushed. “It was a joke. My mom—she says stupid things. You know how she is.”
I let a second pass before answering. “I heard her call me ‘not your level.’ I heard you laugh.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I didn’t mean—”
“What did you mean?” My voice stayed even, which seemed to irritate him more than anger would have. “Because it sounded like you were agreeing with her.”
Matteo dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated. She’s… intense. If I push back, she’ll make everything miserable. I was trying to keep the peace the night before our wedding.”
“The peace for who?” I asked.
He looked up sharply, as if the question was unfair. “For everyone.”
I nodded slowly. “That’s the problem, Matteo. ‘Everyone’ didn’t include me.”
We drove back in a silence that felt like a new room neither of us had been in before. At my apartment, he followed me inside, hovering in the doorway as if he didn’t know whether he was allowed to enter.
“Sofia,” he said, softer now. “Please. Tomorrow is huge. Don’t let my mom’s mouth ruin it.”
I set my keys on the counter carefully. “Your mom’s mouth didn’t ruin it,” I said. “Your reaction did.”
He blinked, caught off guard.
I continued, “I can handle a woman who doesn’t like me. I can’t handle a man who laughs at her cruelty and then asks me to swallow it so things stay ‘easy.’”
Matteo’s voice tightened. “You’re making this bigger than it is.”
I watched him, really watched him—the way he framed my hurt as an inconvenience, the way he wanted the benefit of my patience without the cost of his courage.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “Then it should be easy for you to fix.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “Fix what?”
I took a breath. “Tomorrow, if your mother says anything—anything—about me being beneath your family, you correct her. Immediately. In front of whoever hears it. Not later. Not privately. In the moment.”
Matteo stared at me like I’d suggested he set himself on fire. “In front of people?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled sharply. “Sofia, you don’t understand how she is.”
I almost smiled. “I understand Italian, Matteo. I understand exactly how she is.”
He paced once, stopped, and looked at me with a mix of frustration and pleading. “If I do that, she’ll explode. She’ll ruin the wedding.”
“No,” I said. “She’ll try. And you’ll either stop her, or you won’t. That’s what tomorrow is actually about.”
His shoulders dropped. “You’re giving me an ultimatum.”
“I’m giving you a chance,” I corrected. “To be my husband, not your mother’s assistant.”
He went quiet. Then, very carefully, he said, “I’ll talk to her in the morning. Privately.”
My stomach sank—not because he refused, but because he still didn’t understand.
“I’m going to stay at my maid of honor’s tonight,” I said, moving toward my bedroom to grab a small bag.
Matteo’s head snapped up. “Sofia, come on.”
“I need space,” I said. “And Matteo? If you wake up tomorrow still thinking I’m the problem for not smiling through disrespect… don’t show up to the altar.”
When I closed the door behind me, my hands finally shook. Not from fear—
from grief.
Because I could already feel the shape of the decision forming, like a storm you can smell before you see it.
