Bianca forcefully runs the electric clippers across one side of Livia’s hair inside the bridal dressing room. A thick section falls onto the floor, Livia recoils in shock, and Rosalie immediately moves toward the crying child.

Bianca wrote directly to Livia when Livia was twelve.

She asked my permission first through counsel.

That alone showed change from the woman who once prepared school trunks without asking.

I did not decide.

Livia did.

“Want read.”

Dr. Cole, now occasional rather than regular, reviewed.

The letter was appropriate.

Bianca wrote:

You are old enough now that I want to say something without asking you to take care of my feelings.

Good.

Then:

I was jealous of a dead woman.

Painful.

I wanted the wedding to prove I had replaced Elena in Alessandro’s life and Bellaforte. When you wanted to wear your hair like hers, I treated your love for your mother as an insult to me.

Then:

I am ashamed of that.

No excuse.

Then the school plan:

I convinced myself sending you away would be good because it also solved things I wanted—privacy, business plans, control of the house. Once a decision benefits you and me at the same time, I should have been more careful, not less.

That was insightful.

Then:

I was warned. I continued.

Accountability.

Then:

You owe me nothing.

Good.

Livia read.

“Do I answer?”

“Your decision.”

She waited a month.

Then wrote:

I remember the sound of clippers more than your face.

That sentence hit me.

Then:

I don’t want to meet you now. Maybe never. I hope you don’t do that to anyone else.

Bianca replied only:

Understood.

No pressure.

Good.

Then Livia asked me:

“Do you forgive her?”

I thought.

“I don’t spend much time deciding anymore.”

“That means yes?”

“No. It means she doesn’t occupy enough of my life for the question to be urgent.”

Livia liked that.

“Can I do that?”

“Yes.”

Forgiveness not compulsory endpoint.

Then she asked:

“Did you love her more than Mom?”

“No comparison.”

“Why?”

“Different relationship. Different time.”

“More than Claire?”

Again.

“Love isn’t a ranking.”

She rolled eyes.

Teen prelude.

Then:

“Do you regret wedding canceled?”

“No.”

“Do you regret loving Bianca?”

That took longer.

“No.”

She looked surprised.

“Why?”

“Because if I pretend every good part was fake, I learn the wrong lesson. My mistake wasn’t loving her. It was ignoring information when love made it inconvenient.”

That answer applied beyond Bianca.

Livia remembered.

Years later she would quote it back to me when I disliked her boyfriend.

Children are cruel archivists.

Then Bellaforte commercial events increased to twelve annually.

Still capped.

Livia sometimes volunteered at charity events by choice.

No branded heiress role.

No obligation.

She preferred being upstairs with friends.

Good.

Then at twelve she asked to redesign her bedroom.