Valentina

I struggle with the mystery of Marco's betrayal, locked up in this room with little or no food, wondering what misstep of mine caused him to serve me with divorce papers.

Maybe, without these traits, he could’ve seen the depth of my love. As I look at my reflection, damaged, I grab the scissors from my vanity.

I've given my everything to this man, loved him unconditionally, endured the scorn from his family, and yet, I'm repaid with this?

"Cristos!" exclaims Mother, bewildered, as she walks in on me cutting my hair.

I pay no heed to her, my focus locked on cutting my hair. She forcibly takes the scissors, gathering the strands on the floor, as if she could somehow fix the damage already done.

"Mia bambina, what have you done?" she asks, tears streaming down her face.

"My red hair, blue eyes, pointed nose, and this so-called hourglass shape – these are the reasons Marco noticed me in the first place. He mentioned all that to me the first time we met at an art exhibition," I say, tears threatening to fall, yet sadly, I have none left in me.

"My child, what has that got to do with you shaving off your hair?" She says holding onto the ones she gathered from the floor.

She's always praised my hair, linking it to my father's mother, her Irish boss, who settled in Italy and interestingly married her Italian lover, Mr Roberto Matteo. Strangely, that's the extent of my knowledge about my paternal history, not that I cared, given my father's denial of me as his child, as told by my mother.

"I yearn to be recognized beyond all this! I want them all gone. I want Marco to return. I feel like I'm losing my mind. Madre, please call Marco. I'm willing to work tirelessly for his family if that's what he wants," I express rapidly, crumbling to the ground.

Mother clutches me tightly, holding onto me with great intensity as tears stream down both of our faces. She rocks me, planting a kiss on my head.

"Don't cry, my child. Please, no more tears. Since your return, it's been non-stop crying. You look like a mess. Marco didn't deserve you, and neither did his family. You'll heal, my child. I promise. God made you to be unique, and no one, not Marco or even yourself, can change that."

"Mother, I loved him deeply, and I still do. He claimed to care for me and enthusiastically spoke about showcasing me to the world. Was it all a lie? I expressed concerns about us being worlds apart, but he assured me that once married, his parents would have no choice but to eventually accept me," I say, reflecting on his sweet, tender words from when we first met.

"My child, let's leave Marco in the past. Many men are full of empty promises. There's nothing they won't say to get into your pants. He has moved on, please for your sake, do the same," Mother says, wiping away my tears with her thumb.

"I saw both of them all over the blogs shortly after he announced our divorce. Am I considered unworthy just because we don't have money? He couldn't even point out something I did wrong when the press kept asking. All he could come up with was those vague lines about it being undisclosable."

"Mia figlia, the last thing you need is stalking them on the internet and you are burning up. Please come rest while I get a bowl of water to mop your body," she beckons, leading me to the bed.

Lying on the bed, awaiting Mother's arrival, my phone chimes, and a message from James pops up: 'Please pick up my calls or better still, respond to my messages. I'm worried sick about you. No one knows where in the world you are. If I don't get a response before noon, you leave me no choice.'

James seems to believe the world revolves around him, but I couldn't care less about why he urgently needed to see me. After this mess, I've learned to steer clear of wealthy men like him and those similar to Marco because they bring nothing but trouble. Sticking to people of my social standing is the best and only option for me moving forward.

It's hard to believe I allowed Marco to persuade me to distance myself from Chiara and Elena my childhood friends merely because the press kept calling me out saying I was interacting with people who are the most economically deprived. Now, I find myself devoid of any friends.

I run my hands through my hair, feeling famished, and suddenly realize the extent of damage done to my once-long hair.

"Here you go, my child," Mother says, handing me some medication while gently wiping my body with a wet cloth.

I'm grateful I could move her out of that dreadful place we used to call home and establish a restaurant for her. If putting together that was all I could achieve with Marco's money, given his prohibition on me working, I am more than content.

My stomach growls, a testament to days of neglect and hunger. "I'll go prepare something for you."

"Mother, please don't stress. It's nothing."

"Of course, it is! You've barely had anything to eat in days. I'll go whip up something for you while you please freshen up. Those meds will kick in soon, and in no time, you will gain your strength back, especially after you've had something other than tiny bites of Grissini."

As she leaves, I make an effort to ditch the absurd pyjamas I've been wearing for days and slip into the bath.

"There is a man here to see you, Tina," Mother announces, peering into the bathroom.

"Who could he possibly be? Is he from Marco?" I inquire, rinsing off the soap on my body and hastily grabbing the nearest clothing as I rush out of the room, water dripping down my hair and body.

"He says his name is James," I halt right in my tracks, confirming that I heard correctly.

"Mother, did you say James?"

"Yes, a white boy along with other men dressed in black suits," she confirms.

"What do you mean, some other men?" I inquire, worry etched over my face, silently praying it's not the paparazzi, even though most people aren't aware that we live here.

"Uniformed guards with crisp attire and those things they hang over their ears," she clarifies.

"Please tell him I'm not home," I request, a hint of urgency in my voice.

"I won't deceive the young man. I informed him that you're not in a condition to have visitors, but he insists on waiting until he sees you. He's currently seated on the front step and doesn't look like he is going anywhere anytime soon," she conveys.

Fuming with anger, I march out, eager to understand why he is so determined to see me.

"Your hair..." Mother tries to warn me as I open the door, but regrettably, it's already too late as they all stare at me like I just walked out of an apocalyptic movie.