Two Lives, Two Losses

My name is Debra Salazar, and I am the wife of Siegfried Mussolini. This identity is like a delicate seal, stamped onto the first page of my life for three years. Outsiders see only the gilded patterns of the seal—no one knows the creases and dampness hidden beneath. When people talk about us, they always say I am the Dutiful Wife who perfectly suits the capital's new elite. In financial magazine interviews, I wear a tailored champagne-colored suit, standing beside Siegfried with a gentle smile. When he says, "Thanks to Debra managing the household, I can focus entirely on my career," I lower my lashes just so, displaying a perfectly measured shyness. They say I am magnanimous and generous, even treating Carol Donovan, the young and beautiful woman who is always at Siegfried Mussolini's side, like a little sister. Only I know the emptiness hidden behind this "tolerance". Like reeds in late autumn, still swaying gracefully in the wind, but their roots have long since rotted, and the soil beneath carries the scent of decay. Today is Carol Donovan's twentieth birthday. Early this morning, Siegfried placed a Black Card on my dressing table, his tone as usual brooking no argument: "Carol has her eye on that jade ring. At the auction, bid for her—don't let anyone snatch it away." The auction house was brilliantly lit, the light from the crystal chandeliers so sharp it made your eyes sting. I held up my paddle, watching the numbers flicker on the screen, expressionless like a delicate porcelain statue. The lady beside me leaned in and whispered, "Mrs. Salazar is here on behalf of Ms. Donovan, right? Mr. Mussolini really has a soft spot for her." I tugged at the corner of my mouth but said nothing. When the hammer finally fell at three million, my mobile immediately buzzed. On the other end was Carol Donovan's sickly sweet, coquettish voice: "Debra, did you secure it?" I uttered a hum, my voice as bland as plain water. Before she could say anything else, I ended the call. My fingertips brushed the cold screen of my mobile phone, recalling how three years ago Siegfried Mussolini did the same—buying me a piano I had long admired and giving it to me. His voice back then was full of laughter: "Debra, do you like it? From now on, you'll play it for me at home." This isn't the first time I've run errands for Carol Donovan. Ever since a year ago, when Siegfried brought her back to the old house, saying, "Carol's parents died early; I'll take better care of her," my life gained a new, fixed responsibility—to manage Siegfried's "mistress". Last month, on a sudden whim, she wanted to go skiing in Country R. Siegfried was tied up with the Group's annual meeting and couldn't leave, so he asked me to accompany her. He specifically said, "Carol is going to such a cold place for the first time—keep a close eye on her." On the slopes, she wore a bright red ski suit, like a blazing flame. She deliberately skied toward the edge of the private area Siegfried had reserved for her. Sure enough, she twisted her ankle and fell into the snow, crying out in pain loud enough to be heard across half the ski resort. I knelt down to rub her ankle; my fingertips touched her warm skin, yet my own hands were as cold as ice. She wore ski boots specially ordered from Country T by Siegfried Mussolini, while my gloves were an old pair I bought the year before last. Earlier that spring, she came running to me with red-rimmed eyes, clutching a prenatal check-up report, her shoulders trembling with sobs: "Debra, I really don't know what to do. If Siegfried finds out, he'll definitely be upset." I accompanied her to the private hospital, signed the surgical consent form on her behalf, and stayed with her in the ward for three days and nights after the operation. Siegfried Mussolini visited once, standing at the door of the ward. His gaze swept over me like he was inspecting an object, but when it landed on Carol Donovan's pale little face, it softened instantly, and his voice dropped to a gentler register: "How could you be so careless? Does it hurt?" "Thank you for your hard work." He turned to me and spoke, his tone utterly lacking any apology, carrying only a sense of entitlement, as if all I did was simply expected. I nodded without a word and turned to boil hot water for Carol.