---- "Mr. Torrino, what about your wife's claims?" a reporter shouted. Vincent took a deep breath, his eyes flicking up to where I stood on the landing. "Tsabella... has been mentally unstable for some time, "he said, his voice heavy with false sorrow. "She suffers from delusions. A nerve injury three years ago made it impossible for her to create." The room erupted. "Are you saying your wife is mentally ill?" "Thate to admit it, but... yes. She needs professional help. I tried to keep this private, but now her condition is hurting innocent people." My legs gave out and I sank to the steps. He was telling the whole world I was crazy. Sophia looked up, tears streaming down her face. "T understand Isabella's pain," she sobbed. "But I cannot be slandered. These works are mine, and I have the drafts to prove it." ---- "Will you release that evidence?" "Of course," Vincent said. "We will provide everything. Sketches, notes, timestamps. All of it." Iknew the "evidence" was a lie. But who would believe me now? After the conference, a smear campaign began. "Isabella Torrino's tragic breakdown..." "Poor Sophia, targeted by a madwoman..." "Mafia wife's psychosis: from princess to pariah." My phone exploded with calls from friends, colleagues, strangers. I turned it off and locked myself away.