He Loves Her Through My Eyes

My husband, Victor Moretti, is the Don of the most powerful Mafia family in New York. Everyone knows he loves me more than his own life. But no one knows how many things his love forbids. He never lets me swim because he says my eyes are too sensitive to chlorine. He never lets me touch a gun because the smell of gunpowder and the recoil would hurt me. When I tell him I want a tattoo, he refuses that too. “I love every inch of your skin,” he says. “I don’t want anything covering it.” But anyone who has known me for long knows I grew up by the sea. Diving has always been what I’m best at. And getting a tattoo has been at the top of my bucket list for as long as I can remember. That afternoon, I receive a text saying that I have voluntarily given up my place at the Royal Academy of Music. I freeze. Victor told me the Academy had rejected me because I wasn’t qualified. My fingers tighten around my phone as I head straight to the private club to find him. But when I reach the door, I hear a woman speaking inside. “Victor, I just wish my sister were still alive. Then you wouldn’t have to look at her eyes and be reminded of her every day.” My blood seems to freeze in my veins. Five years ago, I underwent a corneal transplant. Chapter 1 I stand outside the door for a long time. Victor says something, but the ringing in my ears is too loud. I don’t hear a word. When my legs finally move again, I turn and walk away. Close to midnight, a message from him appears on my phone. Family business came up. Go to sleep without me. It isn’t like him at all. Whenever he’s away from home, he calls me before I go to bed. Never later than ten. Victor knows I hate waiting. He knows I’m terrified of him suddenly disappearing without a word. So every time in the past, he has told me exactly where he is going and when he will be back. But this time, he tells me nothing. I don’t turn on the bedroom lights. I sit on the edge of the bed, gripping a photograph so tightly my fingertips ache. My face is pale as paper. The photograph shows a sky full of stars. Under a deep blue night, the Milky Way stretches across the horizon. Countless stars scatter through the darkness like diamonds spilled across black velvet. Five years ago, when I opened my eyes after the corneal transplant and saw clearly for the first time, this photograph was sitting beside my hospital bed. Elena, the doctor who performed my surgery, was the Moretti family’s private physician. Later, she became my closest friend. She told me the photograph had been sent by my donor’s fiancé. They had almost gotten married. I still remember the look on Elena’s face when she told me. Regretful. “That man really loved her,” she had said softly. “It’s such a shame.” Such a shame. I repeat those words in my head until my throat feels like it’s packed with ice. My hands shake so badly that I can barely hold my phone. I open Victor’s social media profile. His profile picture is a sky full of stars. The same deep blue night. The same silver-white Milky Way. Identical to the photograph in my hands. My profile picture, meanwhile, is one of our favorite wedding photos. The photographer had asked us to look at the camera together. But Victor suddenly reached out and cupped my face. Then he lowered his head and stared into my eyes as if he were searching for something precious he had lost and somehow found again. I laughed and tried to pull away. He didn’t let go. “Don’t move,” he murmured. “Let me look at you a little longer.” Even the photographer couldn’t help smiling. “That’s perfect.” “Mr. Moretti looks like he really loves you.” Once, that moment had kept me awake for half the night. Now it feels like a rusty knife slowly twisting in my chest. I sit there with my eyes open until dawn. Then I finally call Elena. The second she answers, her voice tightens. “Ivy? What’s wrong? Are your eyes hurting again?” “The second transplant can’t be delayed any longer. Does Victor know?” My vision has never been completely stable since the corneal transplant. For five years, Victor has watched over everything. He reminds me to take my medication. He makes sure I never miss a checkup. He even asks how much I open the curtains. Back then, I thought he loved me to the point of obsession. Once, I wrapped my arms around him and teased, “Are you really that scared I won’t be able to see you?” Something in his expression changed. Victor’s face darkened instantly. He pulled my hands away from him. “I won’t let anything happen to your eyes.” At the time, I thought it was love. Now I understand. He wasn’t worried about me. He was worried about these eyes. Two weeks ago, my body began showing signs of severe rejection. I didn’t tell Victor. I didn’t want him to worry. My nails dig into my palm so hard that it hurts. When I finally speak, my voice shakes beyond recognition. “What was the relationship between my cornea donor and Victor?” The line goes silent. A few seconds pass before Elena asks carefully, “You know?” I close my eyes. Elena had been the lead surgeon on my operation. She is the only person who could possibly know where my corneas came from. “Why would Victor suddenly mention Selena to you?” My grip tightens around the phone. My eyes burn, and even the lights in front of me begin to blur. So these eyes once belonged to a woman named Selena. When I say nothing, Elena’s voice softens. “Don’t think too much about it. Even if she was his former fiancée, you and Victor have been married for five years.” “We’ve all seen how he takes care of you. He loves you.” She’s right. Even if his reasons for getting close to me hadn’t been pure in the beginning... Five years had passed. Surely, somewhere along the way, some of it had become real. After hanging up, I rush out without even grabbing a coat. Maybe Elena’s words have comforted me. Or maybe I just want to give myself one last chance to believe him. I go to a tattoo studio I’ve had saved for years. Below my collarbone, I get a black rose tattooed onto my skin—the symbol of the Moretti family. When I get home, I ignore the sharp, burning pain spreading beneath my skin and make a full dinner of Victor’s favorite dishes. Then I wait for him. The lock clicks. I immediately smile. “Victor, you’re—” My voice cuts off. He isn’t alone. Victor takes the young woman’s coat from her and hangs it up before he finally looks at me. The next second, his pupils constrict. When he speaks, his voice is cold and heavy. “You got a tattoo?” Chapter 2 He doesn’t even stop to change his shoes. Still wearing his rain-soaked dress shoes, Victor strides across the room and grabs the front of my collar. The black rose freshly tattooed beneath my collarbone is exposed under the light. “I told you not to put this kind of thing on your body.” His thumb rubs hard over the edge of the tattoo. Pain shoots through me, and my eyes sting instantly. The absurdity of it nearly drowns me. “This is my body. I like it. Why can’t I?” “Let go, Victor. You’re hurting me.” Victor’s expression darkens. “Why can’t you take better care of your body? Do you have any idea your eyes can’t—” “Victor, I’m thirsty.” A soft voice suddenly cuts through our argument. I lift my head and look toward the doorway. It’s the woman from his office earlier today. She stands there with the ease of someone already familiar with every corner of this house. Victor lets go of me. When he turns to her, his voice is already gentler. “I’ll get you some water. Your hand is still injured. Go sit on the couch.” Only then does he look back at me. “Her name is Leah Valenti. She’s the younger sister of a friend. She’ll be staying here temporarily until she finds somewhere else to live.” I stare directly into his eyes. “What friend? Have I met her?” Before Victor can answer, a quiet laugh comes from across the room. “She’s dead. Of course Mrs. Moretti never had the chance to meet her.” Leah pauses, her eyes drifting to the tattoo beneath my collarbone. “But if she were still alive, Mrs. Moretti, you definitely wouldn’t be the one standing here.” The malice in her voice is unmistakable. Victor acts as if he doesn’t hear a word. He simply hands her the glass of water. Then he turns back to me. “Get the tattoo removed tomorrow. It doesn’t suit you.” I bite my lip and say nothing. He probably thinks I’ll compromise again. Just like I always have. “Oh, this perfume is still here.” Leah walks quickly toward the glass cabinet beside the fireplace. “Don’t touch it!” The words leave my mouth almost instinctively. That bottle is Victor’s most treasured possession. An old, unbranded perfume bottle with less than half of the perfume left inside. The glass is worn from age. I never understood why it mattered so much. Once, because I thought the scent was unusual, I sprayed a little on my wrist. Victor saw it. And for the first time, he lost his temper with me. “Who gave you permission to touch my things?” It was the first time in our five years of marriage that we stopped speaking to each other. Later, I gave him two perfumes with similar scents to apologize. He never wore either of them. Not once. Leah ignores me. She picks up the old bottle and sprays it lightly against her neck. My heart drops. I’m already preparing myself to defend her. “Victor, do I smell good?” She lifts her face, smiling with innocent confidence. Victor only gives her a helpless look. Then he takes the perfume from her hand and places it on a higher shelf. That’s all. I feel as though someone has dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. Then what was that entire week of silence I endured for touching this perfume supposed to mean? A sharp pain suddenly shoots through my ankle. When I stood up too quickly earlier, I hit the corner of the coffee table. The skin split open, leaving a thin cut. A drop of blood appears. Victor frowns. “Why are you always so careless?” He turns and brings over the first-aid kit. But before his hand can reach my injury, Leah lets out a soft sound. “Victor, I think the cut on my hand opened again.” He immediately pulls the first-aid kit back. Then he hurries to her side and takes her hand in both of his. “Does it hurt? Do you want me to call Elena?” I lower my eyes to the blood slowly running down my ankle. Suddenly, I want to laugh. So he does know how to comfort someone when they’re hurt. He does know what to do. My eyes pass over the small, triumphant smile on Leah’s face and settle on Victor as he bends over her hand, his expression tense with concern. So in his heart, I don’t even matter as much as the younger sister of the woman he once loved. As if sensing my gaze, he looks over, his brows drawing together. “Ivy, Leah makes a living with those hands. She can’t afford to injure them.” “Don’t overthink it. She’s like a sister to me.” Of course. If Selena were still alive, Victor would have married her. Leah really would have been his sister. Leah looks up at him, her eyes red. “Exactly, Victor. You promised my sister you’d take care of me for the rest of my life.” My heart jerks painfully. In the reflection of the glass cabinet, I see a small bead of blood forming at the edge of the black rose beneath my collarbone. The fresh tattoo burns against my skin. I force out the words. “I don’t want her living here.” Victor’s frown deepens. “Ivy. Don’t be childish.” Childish? Not wanting the sister of his dead former fiancée to move into our home is childish? Leah suddenly jumps to her feet, her eyes filling with tears. She shoves Victor away, grabs the half-empty perfume bottle, and heads for the door. “I’m leaving! I told you your wife wouldn’t want me here!” “If that’s the case, I’ll take the things my sister left behind with me too. No point leaving them here to offend her!” Victor doesn’t hesitate. He immediately goes after her and grabs her arm. As he passes me, his shoulder slams into mine. I lose my balance and fall to the floor. My injured ankle twists again. Pain flashes through me so violently that my face turns white. But the next words that fall from Victor’s mouth are even colder. “She doesn’t get to decide.” He looks at Leah. “This is your home too. You can come whenever you want and stay as long as you like.” Leah is quickly soothed. Victor carefully takes the old perfume bottle from her arms, as if he’s recovering some priceless treasure he almost lost. Then my eyes fall on the bottom shelf of the glass cabinet. Two perfume bottles sit there. The two bottles I gave him. The perfume that remained in the old bottle belonged to Selena. The two bottles I gave him to apologize were never used. He never cared about them. The old perfume is returned to the center of the cabinet. I look away. Finally, I can’t stop myself from asking. “Victor.” He looks at me. “Was her sister the woman you loved most in your life... but never got to marry?” Chapter 3 The living room falls silent. I don’t expect Victor to answer. Still, it feels as though someone has carved a piece out of my chest. Back in the bedroom, I look around at the room and suddenly find the whole thing absurd. Before we got married, I wanted to renovate this house. I wanted to replace the old wallpaper. Tear out the heavy walnut cabinets. Even the bedroom lights—I wanted to change them to something I actually liked. Victor refused. “I want everything here to stay exactly the way it is.” Back then, I thought he was simply controlling. Or sentimental. But it turns out he was never attached to the house. He was attached to Selena’s shadow. And to him, I was nothing more than a vessel carrying her eyes. In the middle of the night, I hear Victor speaking quietly to the housekeeper at the far end of the hallway. “Have someone prepare the sunroom in the east wing.” “Her hand is injured. Make some warm porridge in the kitchen and send it up with her medicine and warm water.” His voice is calm and precise. He gives those instructions with the same ease he uses when handling the darker business of the family. I used to think that kind of attention belonged only to me. Five years of intimacy, and in the end, it turns out I was only borrowing the light of someone else’s eyes. Half-asleep, I feel Victor get into bed behind me. He wraps an arm around me. His rough palm gently covers my eyes. My entire body goes rigid. He holds me and lets out a quiet sigh. “Ivy, I never meant to lie to you. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d overthink it.” “She died in that car accident. The person she worried about most was Leah.” “You’ve always been so understanding. I knew you’d understand.” Maybe today is the first time I truly see him. He has never cared what kind of person I am. He says I’m understanding. So I have to be understanding. I don’t want to struggle. I don’t want to cry. But the tears fall anyway. The next morning, Leah is sitting alone in the living room, drinking coffee. I open the cabinet and find that my usual mug is gone. In its place are two mugs printed with photographs. One shows Leah standing beside a woman who looks remarkably like her. The other shows Victor with that same woman, their faces pressed together as they smile at the camera. Bright. Relaxed. Happy. I close the cabinet. The sunlight suddenly feels too harsh. So does the smile in that photograph. Leah appears behind me. She reaches past me and takes one of the mugs, the corner of her lips lifting. “Mrs. Moretti likes this brand of coffee too? What a coincidence. My sister loved it as well.” The coffee is bitter and harsh. I have never liked it. Victor does. “Oh, and that antique vase.” Leah turns toward the display case beside the fireplace, her voice light. “My sister used to love it. I can’t believe you have such good taste that you kept it.” She opens the cabinet and takes out the vase. Then she deliberately holds it up in front of me. “Isn’t it strange?” “Once someone really loves something, no matter how much time passes, they can never truly forget it.” I look at the vase for a few seconds. Then I say calmly, “I don’t like it.” Leah blinks. She clearly doesn’t expect such a direct answer. The vase has never belonged in this cold, luxurious house. More than once, I wanted to put it away. But every time, Victor looked at me with disappointment. “Ivy, I’m the Don of this family. If you’re going to be my wife, you should at least learn to appreciate these things.” The sound of the door opening cuts through the memory. Leah sees Victor walk in. Then she suddenly lets out a cold laugh. Her fingers loosen. The antique vase crashes to the floor. Shards scatter everywhere. She stares at the broken pieces, her eyes wide as if she has been terrified out of her mind. “Mrs. Moretti, why would you smash my sister’s favorite vase?” Victor’s face darkens instantly. He crosses the room in a few long strides and grabs my wrist. “Ivy, when did you become this cruel?” “Apologize.” I meet his eyes. There is no hesitation in them. No doubt. Only blatant protection for her. I pull at my lips. The smile that comes out is bitter. “Victor, I won’t apologize for something I didn’t do.” “Look at yourself. Are you defending her... or her sister?” Chapter 4 Before I can say anything, Leah bursts into tears and runs out of the house. Victor frowns at me. “Stop making trouble.” Then he casually shoves a business card into my hand. A tattoo removal clinic. “When you have time, go get it removed.” Then he turns and goes after her without looking at me again. I don’t even look at the card. My heart is terrifyingly calm. I lift my hand and toss it into the trash. Then I call Elena. “I want a divorce from Victor.” “And don’t tell him about the surgery yet.” Her reaction is far more intense than mine. I can barely calm her down. “Has he lost his mind? Taking the side of that fake little bitch?” “Do you need me to do anything? Have you told him?” I actually laugh. “No. He probably won’t agree. I’ll find a lawyer first. I’m moving out tomorrow.” “He won’t agree? What the hell gives him the right not to agree?” I smile bitterly. She doesn’t understand. These are the eyes of the woman he loved. How could he ever bear to let them leave? I draft the divorce agreement. Print it. Sign it. Quickly. Cleanly. Once I’m done, my phone suddenly rings. “Ivy, the Academy still won’t approve your explanation. Mostly because they already have a new candidate.” “Oh, and your husband personally recommended her.” My chest tightens. I struggle to speak. “Who?” “A girl named Leah Valenti. I heard your husband wrote her a recommendation letter that was over two thousand words.” I don’t hear another word after that. My eyes fall on the corner of the living room. A piano sits there. Victor bought it for me when I was supposedly rejected. He told me then that he would always be my audience. My eyes burn. I laugh. And the tears won’t stop. The next second, I grab the piano bench and slam it down onto the keys. Sometime after midnight, I wake to a faint, crackling sound. I sit upright in bed. My hand flies to my collarbone. The skin is numb. They gave me an anesthetic. My tattoo is gone. The skin beneath my collarbone is swollen and burning, and the pain is slowly pushing through the numbness. Victor’s gaze darkens. But before he can say anything, Leah laughs. “Victor asked me what he could do to make me forgive him.” “I told him I wanted that black rose under your collarbone removed. Because you don’t deserve to wear the family crest on your body.” She smiles. “I didn’t expect Victor to agree without even thinking twice.” I’m shaking with anger. Victor, however, looks completely justified. “Tattoo ink residue isn’t good for your eyes.” “Ivy, I did this for your own good.” My eyes turn red. I almost laugh from anger. But before I can answer, Leah rubs her stomach and starts to whine. “Okay, okay. I’m not mad anymore.” “Come on, Victor. Let’s get something to eat. I have my piano recital tomorrow.” She pushes him toward the bedroom door. But Victor suddenly stops. “Ivy, I had the kitchen make you the seafood chowder you like. You should come eat too.” “Oh, and I remember you play the piano too. I’ll take you to Leah’s recital tomorrow.” I look toward the mirror. My gaze falls on the swollen, red skin beneath my collarbone. I can’t bring myself to look away. I’ve never liked seafood chowder. I’m allergic to shellfish. I get up and start packing. By the time I walk out of the house, it is exactly midnight. The mug with Victor and Selena’s photograph is sitting in the center of the coffee table. The house has gained another thing he carefully treasures. I take off my wedding ring. Without expression, I drop it into the mug. Then I call Elena again. “Schedule the second corneal transplant for tomorrow.” I’m giving him back the eyes of the woman he loved. From now on, I will belong to no one but myself. The next morning. A notification appears on Victor’s phone. [NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital: Pre-operative information for patient Ivy Moretti’s second corneal transplant. Please have an authorized family member arrive for verification.]