Tuesdays
Those were always the worst days.
Otilla found out.
She was reviewing reports lazily, one leg crossed over the other, when the name caught her eye—not dramatic, not bold, just there.
Andrea Rossi – Re-enrolled.
She read it twice.
Then a third time.
Her fingers stilled.
"That's not possible," she said calmly.
The aide standing before her hesitated. "The paperwork is clean, Signorina. Fees paid. Backdated approvals. Special consideration."
Otilla looked up slowly.
"By who?"
The aide swallowed. "A military liaison signed off on part of it. Quietly."
Silence spread across the room like a stain.
Otilla stood.
The chair scraped loudly against the marble floor—an ugly sound, uncontrolled. She hated that most of all.
"Out," she said.
The aide didn't need to be told twice.
The glass vase hit the wall first.
It shattered, petals scattering across the floor like casualties.
"How," Otilla whispered, breathing hard, "do they keep standing?"
She paced the room, fury sharp and bright beneath her skin.
Andrea back in school.
Marcello improving.
Bills disappearing.
This wasn't resilience.
This was intervention.
Her mind snapped to one name instantly.
Xavier.
Of course.
She laughed once—short, bitter.
"So," she said aloud, "you didn't just disobey."
She grabbed her phone.
"Run his finances," she ordered when the call connected. "Quietly. I want numbers."
A pause.
Then—
"Yes," the voice replied. "At once."
Otilla lowered herself slowly onto the sofa, rage simmering now—dangerous, controlled.
Minutes later, the message arrived.
She read it.
And then—
Otilla screamed.
Not loud enough for the guards to hear.
Just enough to terrify the room.
"Sixty percent," she breathed. "Every month."
She pressed the phone to her chest, shaking with fury.
He wasn't helping.
He was choosing.
Choosing them over her world.
Over her father's name.
Over everything she had threatened him with.
Her hands clenched.
"I gave you everything," she whispered. "And you gave it away."
She went to the window and stared out at the city.
Andrea walking into school with a backpack.
Isabella studying late into the night.
Marcello breathing without pain.
Hope.
Otilla despised hope.
Because hope made people careless.
And careless people forgot who decided whether they rose or fell.
She turned back into the room, her expression smoothing into something cold and precise.
"Alright," Otilla said softly.
"If money brought him back to school…"
Her lips curved.
"…then money can take him out again."
She reached for her phone once more.
This time, her voice was steady.
"I want pressure," she said. "Not noise. Not yet."
A pause.
"Yes," she added. "Start with the soldier."
She ended the call and looked at her reflection in the darkened glass.
The rage was still there—but now it was sharp.
Focused.
Xavier Hernandez had crossed a line Otilla D'Este never forgave.
And Andrea Rossi?
He had stepped back into a world that had already decided he didn't belong.
Otilla smiled faintly.
School bells rang.
Lessons resumed.
But somewhere beneath it all, the ground was shifting again—
And this time, she would make sure everyone felt it.