crashing quietly | c.l.

FULL FLASHBACK

Milan, Italy – Two years ago

Before she was Cara Pluie, she was just Cara.
Still learning who she was. Still soft around the edges.
Still believing that attention meant affection.

She met him at a charity gala she wasn't invited to.
A borrowed dress. Stolen name on the guest list.
She was sneaking a drink when he caught her.

Matteo Ricci. The Matteo Ricci.

Golden. Smiling like a secret.
He held her gaze like he already owned it.

"Non sei come le altre."
(You're not like the others.)

She smiled — unsure, flattered, flushed.
He smiled back like she'd passed a test she didn't know she was taking.

⸻

He asked for her number.
Called her that night.

Their first date was a private rooftop dinner above the Duomo.
He ordered for her. Taught her how to pronounce the wine.
Told her not to worry about the check — "It's taken care of."

She felt like Cinderella with an NDA.

⸻

Then came the gifts.
Silk lingerie. A vintage watch. A designer coat that made her look like someone else.

"Ti vesto come meriti."
(I dress you the way you deserve.)

He said it like a blessing.

She started skipping auditions.
Stopped messaging friends.
Stopped needing anyone but him.

⸻

He was charming in public.
Charming in private.
Charming when he was angry — and he was, often.

But not loud. Not cruel.
Just disappointed. Just disappointed enough.

⸻

The change was gradual.
So slow she mistook it for growth.

The dress he asked her not to wear.
The friend he asked her to stop seeing.
The career he told her could wait.

At first, he asked.
Then he told.
Then he just expected.

⸻

By the time she realized how small she'd become,
She couldn't remember the sound of her own laugh.

⸻

The night of the scar started like any other.
He was being honored at a private event — a sponsor's villa outside Florence.

She wore a backless silver gown she'd bought in secret.
It shimmered when she moved. Made her feel like a person again.

He saw her walk downstairs and froze.

"Cos'è quella cosa?"
(What is that thing?)

She smiled. "It's a dress."

He stared. Cold.

"Ti avevo detto nero."
(I told you to wear black.)

She laughed. Nervous. "It's fine, Matteo. I—"

"Toglilo."
(Take it off.)

She didn't.

⸻

At the party, he didn't touch her once.
Not even to pose for photos.
His smile was tight. His hand stayed at his side.

They left early.
The car ride was silent. His jaw locked.
She could feel it — the pressure building, like weather before a storm.

⸻

At the villa, the fight started small.
She poured a glass of wine. He took it from her hand.

"Stai cercando attenzione?"
(Are you looking for attention?)

"No. I liked the dress. That's all."

He raised his voice.

She backed away — turned, stupidly, toward the kitchen, the wine still open on the marble counter.
He followed.

He didn't scream. He didn't throw things.

He just picked up the wine glass she'd left behind —
Thin-stemmed. Delicate.

He gripped it too hard.

It broke.

And then—

Then he grabbed her.
Not her wrist this time.

Her ribs.

A hand pressed flat against her side — sudden, rough, unthinking.

The broken glass still in his other hand.

Not aimed.

But there.

She flinched, twisted, tried to pull away—
The edge of the broken glass grazed her skin.
A sharp slice — right below the left side of her back, beneath her rib cage.

She gasped.

Let go of everything.

He looked at her.
At the blood on her dress.
At the crack in the illusion.

⸻

"Guarda cosa mi hai fatto fare."
(Look what you made me do.)

Not I'm sorry.
Not Are you okay?

Just that.

⸻

She didn't go to the hospital.
He cleaned the wound in the bathroom. Quiet. Methodical.

"Dovresti stare ferma."
(You should hold still.)

She stared at the floor.

"Non succederà più."
(It won't happen again.)

But it already had.

⸻

She packed her bag at dawn.
He was still asleep.

One suitcase.
A secondhand espresso machine she refused to leave behind.
And the silver dress — stained, but hers.

No forwarding address.

⸻

She didn't cry when the train pulled out of the station.
Didn't cry when the apartment in Monaco turned out to have mice.
Didn't cry when she had to Google how to fix the espresso machine by herself.

But when it sputtered and hissed and finally worked —
Steam rising like breath from a buried life —

She laughed.

And cried.

At the same time.

⸻

//

let's get the fire up (drama)

baby cara:(
i really don't like this shit!
i hope you all are safe!
much love<3

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