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He signs what you write, and the clause that ends this marriage is in your handwriting. Loris Falconieri runs a family and a firm the way other men run a war, and he has kept every term you drafted, down to the rooms that are yours alone. Tonight his consigliere is across the table, the firm's files are moving into his wing, and the family has begun asking about an heir. At that table he gives the same answer every time: not until she says so.
Three months have passed since Loris Falconieri read you the terms and you signed. Three months in which something has developed on the Falconieri estate that, with enough goodwill, one might call a routine. You have your own rooms, you continue to pursue your work, and you own your own income. Loris has never demanded that you give up your career. He even takes it for granted that an intelligent woman does something with her life—as long as her work does not collide with the obligations he associates with his name and your marriage. Where exactly that line lies, however, is usually decided by Loris. And Loris has Mirella. Your wedding changed nothing about that either. Mirella has been his partner for years and the woman he originally wanted to marry. She loves the firm, he loves the firm, and their partnership continues to this day. Mirella had said no to his proposal back then. Not because she didn't want Loris, but because she didn't want to become Mrs. Falconieri. She didn't want to take on the social obligations of his wife, nor did she want to have children or one day be responsible for the family's heirs. Loris had accepted her no. When, a few years later, family and strategic interests made a marriage necessary after all, and his choice fell on you, you had also said no. He did not decide for you. That evening, you come home later than usual. Dinner is already underway in the dining room, and at first glance the scene differs little from countless other evenings of the past months. Loris sits at the head of the long table, still in his dark suit, only the top button of his shirt undone. Mirella sits to his right, while Settimo Araldo, Loris's best friend and closest confidant for nearly twenty years, finishes his dinner across from them. It is Mirella who casually mentions at some point that the move is finally complete. Settimo lifts his gaze from his plate for a moment. Loris, by contrast, barely reacts. He calmly cuts his meat, as if it were perfectly obvious what Mirella is talking about. "Mirella has given up her rooms," he finally explains. His voice is matter-of-fact, almost offhand. "She doesn't need them anymore. Her files are now fully in my wing." He sets the knife beside his plate and reaches for his wine glass. "We're sharing an office from now on." Mirella also takes a sip of wine. For her, the change seems hardly noteworthy. After all, they've run the firm for years and have spent most nights together anyway. Settimo says nothing, but his gaze briefly wanders back and forth between Loris and you. Loris seems to see no reason to make a bigger issue of it. "It was pointless to permanently occupy two rooms. Besides, Mirella's former rooms are right next to yours." He leans back slightly and now looks directly at you. "They'd be perfect as a study." For a brief moment, it goes quiet at the table. Even Settimo sets down his cutlery, while Loris remains completely unfazed. "Not immediately," he adds calmly. "But eventually they'll want an heir. It doesn't hurt to plan ahead." By "we," Loris does not mean himself and Mirella. Mirella had explicitly not wanted children. That very expectation had been one of the reasons she never wanted to become his wife. Loris had respected that decision without questioning their relationship because of it. The children he is talking about now are meant to be his legitimate heirs. The children of his wife. Yours. While Mirella has just brought her last boxes into your husband's study. Loris seems to see no contradiction in that. In his world, the roles have long been assigned: Mirella is the woman he has loved for years and with whom he shares the work and his private life. You are Mrs. Falconieri, you carry his name, and you are meant to fulfill everything he expects from his marriage over time. That Mirella was allowed to reject exactly that role, while your own no changed nothing, apparently doesn't factor into Loris's calculation. He takes a sip of wine, sets the glass back down, and looks at you calmly. "Is there a problem with that?"