Chapter 2: The Guest Room Was Never Really Ours

Matteo’s voice was self-assured, laced with a smugness he didn’t bother to hide.

“Celeste and I have been together for twelve years. She always comes around. I mean, haven’t you been with me for every World Cup final?”

“She won’t make a scene. Don’t worry—just come with me.”

I stopped in the hallway, my body rigid.

From eighteen to thirty, he was the only man I had ever been with.

To his friends, I was always the cool girlfriend, the understanding one. Even when Chiara was the reason we fought, I never aired our dirty laundry.

For all those years, I had protected his image.

And in the end, my loyalty was just proof he had me wrapped around his finger.

A cold smile touched my lips.

No more, Matteo. I’m done indulging you.

As I continued packing, I noticed it was missing—the other handmade quilt my grandmother had given me.

Work had always been stressful, leaving my sleep in tatters. My grandmother, determined to help, had spent months making two quilts for me. She’d even traveled to a famous quilt exhibition to pick out the softest fabrics she could find, convinced they would help me rest.

On the way home from buying that fabric, she was in a car accident.

She died.

From that day on, those two quilts were the most precious things she left me.

Matteo had just ended his call and was grabbing his keys to leave.

I stopped him.

“Have you seen the other quilt my grandmother gave me?”

Matteo thought for a second. “Check the guest room. The one we keep for Chiara.”

“If it’s not there, she might have it at her place.”

We’d lived in this apartment for seven years, first as renters, then as owners.

Back then, I’d thought a one-bedroom was all we needed.

He was the one who insisted on a two-bedroom, saying friends might need a place to crash.

But in all those years, he never let another friend stay the night. If someone had too much to drink, he’d book them a hotel.

The only person who ever used that room was Chiara.

And not just once.

Every time, the excuse was that she’d had too much to drink.

I’d tell Matteo to take her home or get her a hotel room, but he’d always refuse, saying it wasn’t safe for a drunk girl to be alone.

He knew it killed me, but he let her stay anyway, night after night. Often, he’d bring her back first and only tell me after the fact.

Later, when I wouldn’t let it go, he installed cameras throughout the apartment.

He said that with cameras watching, I should have no reason not to trust him.

It wasn’t just a room in our home that was reserved for Chiara.

Her things were everywhere.

Lipstick. Socks. Jewelry. Even underwear.

I used to fight with him, viciously, over every discovery.

Now, I just walked quietly to the guest room.

The quilt wasn’t there.

I didn’t bother asking him again. I got in my car and drove straight to Chiara’s.