I’m sick of these stupid high heels and short dresses that Alberto forces me to wear. I’m sick of the sneers and eye rolls and the insults from people who wouldn’t pee on me if I was on fire. The escorts and itineraries and the sleepless nights staring at the gilded ceiling of Alberto’s bedroom, wondering if his fat belly will suffocate me when he finally clambers on top of me on our wedding night. I hate the Viscontis. And I hate that I have no choice but to suck it up and smile.
