The day before our wedding, my fiancé brought me to his mom’s house for “a nice family dinner.” She switched to Italian to insult me right in front of my face—then my fiancé joined in and laughed. Before walking out, I revealed the one thing they never expected: I understood every word.

Giulia kept hold of my hand a second longer than necessary, like she needed something solid to confirm what she’d just heard was real. Her expression barely shifted—she was too disciplined for that—but her eyes hardened slightly, the subtle snap of a lock turning in place.

Matteo cleared his throat. “Sofia—” he started, my name in Italian slipping out instinctively.

I gently withdrew my hand.

“We should go,” I replied in Italian, my tone steady. Then, switching to English, I added, “It’s late.”

Out in the driveway, the air was sharp and cold. Matteo stood beside his car, hands braced on his hips, staring down at the pavement as if it might offer an explanation.

“You… you understood everything?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Every word.”

Color rose to his face. “It was a joke. My mom says stupid things.

You know what she’s like.”