He Wanted Her, He Lost Me, and I Never Looked Back

“Congratulations. You’ve been selected to study Fine Arts at our academy. We expect your arrival in Melbourne within the next month.”

I sank back into the worn leather chair, letting out a long, shaky breath that I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The words on the screen swam before my eyes as memories of my graduation day flooded my mind, sharp and unrelenting.

That day, every loyal soldier of a family was supposed to be flanked by their allies—the ones who claimed them, the ones sworn to protect and honor them. And yet, my own wouldbe Don, Marcello Moretti, hadn’t been there.

Instead of standing at my side with pride, instead of witnessing me claim my achievement in front of the world, he was halfway across the globe, lounging under the golden sun of Monaco as though the moment of my life meant nothing at all.

In his absence came flowers, accompanied by an envelope thick with cash. Money in place of presence. Currency masquerading as loyalty. A gesture that reeked of convenience and entitlement.

Every time I dared confront him, he brushed it off like it was nothing.

“Isabelle,” he’d say smoothly, voice dipped in charm and casual dismissal. “It’s just graduation. I had a critical meeting with a client in Monaco. You’ll understand.”

Understand.

The word had always tasted like ash on my tongue. I had spent years bending, forgiving, excusing, acting as a loyal daughter of his family—waiting for him to finally claim what was his, to honor what should have been our bond.

But that was the past.

Last night, a single post on Serafina Vitale’s social feed shredded the remnants of my patience. She was still in Monaco. Still with Marcello. Still laughing, the pictureperfect image of intimacy I had once foolishly believed was reserved for me.

It wasn’t just a casual snapshot—the third image made my chest tighten.

Serafina straddled Marcello’s lap, arms looping possessively around his shoulders, lips pressed against his in a kiss that was neither light nor friendly. It was a declaration of ownership.

Marcello’s hands rested on her waist like a predator marking his territory. Even through the thin fabric of his swimwear, his reaction was evident. This was his “critical meeting.”

I had always known about Serafina Vitale. Marcello’s childhood confidante. The shadow that had never left his side. Every time I questioned it, they laughed in unison:

“We’re just friends, Isabelle.”

And for three long years, I had believed them. Foolishly, painfully, faithfully.

Not anymore.

At that very moment, I made a silent vow—I would never tell Marcello about my acceptance into the academy. He had forfeited any right to know. He had no claim over my future, not after his betrayal.

During my graduation, the only one who had stood, eyes glinting with pride, had been my mother. Only she deserved to hear my triumph.

I set the phone down and turned to her. She had just placed a plate of warm cookies on the mahogany table, the scent mingling with the faint tang of espresso lingering from her morning ritual.

“You remember the Blackstone family, right?” she asked casually, nudging the plate closer.

I picked up a cookie, biting into it slowly. “Of course I remember them,” I murmured.

“Good,” she said with a faint, approving smile. “They’ll be watching over you when you get to Melbourne.”

My brow furrowed. “Wait… what are you talking about?”

“You won’t be alone, Isabelle,” she said, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “I won’t rest easy unless you stay with them. Besides, you and Raffaele grew up together. You’ve walked the same streets, learned the same lessons in the family ways. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Here it comes.

Mother always had a way of weaving Raffaele Ashclaw into my life—as though fate itself had etched our names together long before either of us had drawn breath.

“Mom, I was thinking of renting a small studio. Just for the year—”

“No,” she cut me off with a wave of her hand. “That won’t do. The Blackstones are respected, and Raffaele… he’s a formidable underboss. Consider it an opportunity to understand the man before the family seals your alliance officially.”

“Mom!” I choked on the cookie, more from frustration than food.

She laughed lightly, the sound teasing. “What? It’s perfect logic. You’ve been accepted to a university in Melbourne, and Raffaele just happens to be there. Call it fate. Call it… family guidance.”

I pressed my fingers to my temples. “Fine. But if things go wrong with Raffaele, this conversation ends here.”

“Alright, alright,” she said, though the amusement in her eyes suggested she had no intention of taking me seriously.

Mother didn’t know I already had someone else. Marcello. He had insisted on secrecy while I was in college, promising that once I graduated, the world would see me as his rightful partner—the one he called his. But promises were for fools, and he had shown his colors.

That evening, I returned home, not expecting the cold knot of unease that would twist in my chest at the sight before me.

Marcello and Serafina were there, laughing like a pair of inseparable allies, comfortable and practiced in each other’s presence. Marcello’s arm rested casually around her waist, his hand claiming space that should have been mine. The familiarity stung, sharp and unrelenting.

Serafina was packing a suitcase, pretending not to notice the subtle ownership in his touch, yet the intimacy between them was undeniable.

“Isabelle, you’re back,” Marcello greeted with effortless charm, as if nothing had happened.

He withdrew his arm from her waist and approached me, calm, rehearsed, like a man who had rehearsed apologies for every imagined scenario except this one.

Serafina’s smile was sweet, too saccharine to be sincere. “I just dropped by with some gifts. We packed lightly—only one suitcase. I hope that’s alright with you, Isabelle?”

As if she hadn’t just intruded upon my home, my life, my trust.

I met her gaze, expression neutral. “Do what you must,” I said evenly.

Marcello didn’t flinch. “You must be exhausted. Rest first. I’ll finish here with Serafina,” he said smoothly.

“Don’t worry,” Serafina added with practiced innocence. “I’ll be gone once we’re done.”

I exhaled, face carefully unreadable. “Take your time,” I said, voice colder than steel.

I turned and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. But even there, I could hear them—their laughter, their whispered jokes, their closeness.

“Stop it, Marcello. It’s late. I should finish quickly, don’t want to bother Isabelle,” Serafina’s giggle floated through the air.

Marcello chuckled. “Alright, alright. Just don’t take my jacket as a souvenir.”

“Marcello!” she shrieked in mock protest, laughter spilling like liquid.

By the time Serafina left, I was already lying in bed, eyes open to the ceiling, stomach twisting.

Not long after, the door creaked. Marcello slipped inside, climbing onto the mattress beside me.

“Isabelle,” he murmured, voice low, hand brushing my arm as though nothing had shifted between us. “I’ve brought souvenirs. Want to see them?”

There was a time I would have melted at that touch, would have surrendered instinctively. But not tonight.

I pulled away, body stiff.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, amusement in his tone. “Are you… upset for some silly reason?”

I didn’t answer. I unlocked my phone and held the screen before him. His face drained of color.

“Isabelle, it’s just a joke… a stupid game,” he tried, voice slick and persuasive. “You know I only—”

I didn’t let him finish.

I threw the blanket aside and rose abruptly. “I’m sleeping elsewhere tonight,” I said, ice in my words.

And I left the room.

He didn’t follow me. Of course he wouldn’t. He only chased what benefited him, and in his mind, I was nothing more than a momentary irritation that would fade by sunrise.

But I had finally seen the truth. I had been too loyal, too hopeful, too entangled in illusions to face it before.

It didn’t matter anymore.

In thirty days, I would leave his territory.

And this time… I would never return.

When dawn finally broke, the first thing that greeted my eyes wasn’t the soft light streaming through the blinds—it was Serafina and Marcello moving around the kitchen like they owned the place, like they were a perfectly orchestrated power couple running a private empire within our own walls.

As if the sight of them last night hadn’t already set my nerves ablaze with fury, Serafina had the audacity to return to the household this morning. She stood by the stove, flipping eggs with an ease that suggested she had always belonged there, like this house was hers by right of some invisible inheritance. Marcello leaned casually against the counter beside her, shoulders brushing occasionally, exchanging smiles and laughter that radiated familiarity—a warmth I hadn’t seen from him in years.

The moment Serafina spotted me, she nudged Marcello with the slightest sway of her hip, a movement both playful and possessive, before turning to face me with a smile so sweet it could have been weaponized.

“Oh, Isabelle, you’re already awake?” she chirped, voice light and dripping with innocence, as though she had merely popped in for a friendly visit. “I forgot my bag last night in my rush to leave. Came back to grab it, and Marcello mentioned he was hungry, so I cooked him some sunnyside up eggs. Would you like some too?”

Her tone was deceptively kind, a mask of civility over the power she always tried to wield over me. But I knew her far too well. Serafina had never respected boundaries, not back when we were both still navigating our territory in college. Every time Marcello would pick me up after classes, she would find a way to slip into the passenger seat, leaving me in the back, a silent outsider in my own narrative.

There was always some reason, some favor she needed, some excuse to assert dominance over him—and I had kept my mouth shut. Foolishly, I had told myself I wouldn’t become the jealous, possessive woman, swallowing every pang of resentment, letting every violation slide. Looking back, perhaps that silence had been my biggest mistake. Perhaps it had encouraged her to believe that nothing, not even me, could stop her from crossing lines that were mine by right.

Marcello finally noticed me, his face brightening as if nothing untoward had ever happened. He approached and took my hand, the warmth of his familiar touch a cruel reminder of what I had once trusted him to be.

“You should try some,” he said casually, voice smooth, the same practiced charm I had once fallen for. “Serafina makes her eggs like a professional chef—truly, she’s something else.”

I let him lead me to the table, my body moving automatically while my mind screamed in protest, a storm of fury and heartbreak brewing beneath my calm exterior.

Soon, the three of us sat down for breakfast. Marcello claimed the center seat, deliberately placing himself between us, a human barricade. Serafina and I faced each other across the table, her every movement, every word, a reminder of my marginal position.

When their laughter dragged on, I finally broke in, my voice soft but deliberate. “Since Serafina was kind enough to cook, I’ll take care of the dishes.”

I rose immediately, gathering my plate and moving toward the sink before either of them could protest. Marcello followed, ever the attentive partner in appearance, collecting the remaining plates and setting them beside me.

Serafina stretched lazily, yawning as she announced, “I’ll just freshen up in the bathroom,” her words casual, as if she owned every corner of this home.

The moment she disappeared down the hall, I seized the opportunity. Keeping my tone steady, I leaned close to Marcello. “Can you take me to the U.S. embassy later? My passport is expiring soon.”

He nodded instantly, unaware of the quiet challenge in my request. “Sure. We can go after we finish here.”

Then he stepped behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me into an embrace that should have felt safe but only highlighted the betrayal that had been etched into every fiber of our shared history. For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to feel the pull of comfort, the echoes of what I had once believed to be loyalty, until reality snapped back.

Before we could continue, a sharp scream echoed from the bathroom, shattering the fragile calm. Marcello’s reaction was instantaneous—he released me and rushed toward the sound, leaving me standing in the empty kitchen, my skin still tingling from his warmth, already replaced in his priorities.

Minutes later, he returned, carrying Serafina in his arms. She looked frail, vulnerable—but as soon as his attention shifted even briefly, I caught the faint, triumphant smirk she sent my way.

“She sprained her foot—it’s swelling badly,” Marcello said hurriedly, snatching his car keys from the counter. “I’ll take you to the embassy after I make sure she’s alright.”

Without waiting for my response, he was gone, leaving the house silent, hollow, and empty.

I lingered, staring at the spot he had vacated, unshocked. This was nothing new. From the very beginning of our relationship, Serafina had always come first. I had believed that moving in together, witnessing him climb the family hierarchy, and sharing a life within the family business would change things—that he would finally choose us. But hope is a luxury the foolish cannot afford.

Whenever I tried to voice my unhappiness, he dismissed my emotions as though they were mere inconveniences. Then, as if to soothe his own guilt, he would deposit money into my account.

“Use this to cheer yourself up,” he would say, the same cold, practiced tone. “Go shopping. Go out with friends.”

I had never wanted money. I had never wanted gifts. I had wanted presence. Recognition. A partner who chose me as fiercely as he claimed to. And he had never done that.

I drew a slow, steadying breath and left the house alone, heading to the U.S. embassy under my own power. In the sterile waiting area, I mechanically filled out the forms to renew my identification. But when I reached the line for my name, my hand stilled.

A thought crystallized, sharp and undeniable. In twentynine days, I would leave this territory, this life, this man, to begin anew in Melbourne.

Why cling to the remnants of a past that had only chained me?

My fingers tightened around the pen. With quiet, unyielding resolve, I filled out a second form—requesting the cancellation of my old identity and registering a new one. A new name. A new beginning. A life entirely of my own making.

When I stepped back into the apartment that afternoon, silence swallowed the place like a tomb. The rooms felt empty, untouched, as if Marcello had never even been here. No laughter, no footsteps—just the hollow echo of absence.

“As I expected,” I muttered under my breath, sinking into the worn leather couch with a tired exhale.

He was probably still at the hospital, hovering over Serafina—whether it was genuine concern or just another way she had found to tether him to her side, keeping him away from me, keeping him away from the life we were supposed to share.

I let out a long, weary sigh, too drained to muster the anger that had once roared through me. I reached for the book I’d been reading earlier, hoping to lose myself for a while, but then something on the coffee table caught my attention.

Marcello’s phone.

It lay there carelessly, abandoned in his rush to tend to Serafina. I let out a humorless scoff. He never left the apartment without it. Never. That he had forgotten it now said everything I needed to know: she mattered more than anything else—more than duty, more than loyalty, more than even his own business affairs.

I leaned back, trying to focus on my book, but the persistent vibration of the phone against the table made it impossible to ignore. Frustrated, I reached over, fingers hovering over the screen. Notifications stacked one after another, relentless.

I hadn’t meant to snoop. I only wanted peace. Silence. But then I saw the sender.

It was his family’s private group chat—the very same circle he had traveled to Monaco with.

My chest constricted. Without thinking further, I unlocked the phone. The password was still the same—the anniversary of our engagement.

“We have nothing to hide from each other,” Marcello had said once, grinning lazily when I hesitated to touch his phone. Back then, I had trusted him without question. That trust died the day I discovered the truth. I was done living under the carefully constructed lies of a man who couldn’t even defend the bond we shared.

I scrolled through the messages, each word hitting me harder than the last, until one exchange made my stomach drop:

[That Monaco trip was insane. Can’t believe Marcello almost skipped it because of that clingy girlfriend.]

[LMAO, imagine him using the ‘client meeting’ excuse just to sneak away with us.]

[Marcello, you’re a legend. Should hand her a trophy—‘Most Gullible Girlfriend of the Year.’]

My breath caught. Even Serafina, supposedly injured and at the hospital, was chiming in.

[Nah, call it ‘Most Pathetic Girlfriend.’]

[I think Serafina deserves an award. Truth or Dare was her idea, right?]

[Well, he’s my childhood sweetheart. What’s a little fun between us?]

[Careful, babe. Isabelle might flip out if she finds out.]

[Nah, even if she does, she’ll cry a little, sulk for a few days, and then forgive Marcello. He’s trained her well.]

[Damn… that’s kind of sad, actually.]

Even through the quiet of my apartment, their laughter echoed.

It wasn’t just their mocking words that cut me—it was their absolute certainty that I would remain, that I would forgive him as I always had. That I would let myself be sidelined, relegated to the background while Serafina paraded herself in his life.

And the photos—they were even worse.

A few moments later, my own phone buzzed. A new message.

[Hi, are you still taking freelance photography jobs? I’d like to hire you for an event.]

I blinked. Photography had been my escape, my passion, the skill I honed in college while earning my Fine Arts degree. Over the last few months, I had paused freelance work to focus on finishing school—but curiosity drew me to check. More inquiries were waiting, requests for shoots piling up.

Something stirred in me. A quiet, steely resolve anchored itself in my chest. If Marcello could pour himself into distractions, favors, and everyone else, then I would pour myself into mine. Into work. Into my future. Into building a life that didn’t depend on him.

A week passed in a blur. During that time, I barely noticed Marcello. Not because I was avoiding him, but because I was too immersed in my work to even think of him. My days and nights were packed with events, photo sessions, and client meetings. My camera became my shield, my escape from everything I no longer wanted to face. I stopped wondering if he had eaten, slept, or spent the day with Serafina. None of it mattered.

Then one evening, after a particularly long shoot, I returned home to find him waiting.

Marcello sat just outside the apartment door, arms crossed, his expression unreadable yet sharp, as if he had been standing there for hours. The moment I stepped inside, his gaze locked onto mine.

“So, finally done avoiding me?” he asked, voice edged with mockery.

I didn’t even look at him, slipping off my shoes as I walked past. “I’m not avoiding you,” I said simply.

“Then explain why you leave early in the morning and only return when I’m asleep,” he pressed, frustration creeping in.

“Because I’ve been busy,” I answered flatly, moving toward my room.

Before I could reach the door, his hand shot out and gripped my wrist.

“Fine. If you’re still upset because I couldn’t take you to the embassy last week, just say it,” he snapped. “Serafina was in the hospital, her parents were away… What was I supposed to do? Ignore her?”

I turned to face him, my expression calm and distant. “Different priorities, Marcello. Mine was my passport. If I’d waited for you, it would have expired, wouldn’t it?”

His grip tightened. “You always have time to argue, but don’t you see I’ve been exhausted too? Working, taking care of Serafina at the same time.”

Then his tone sharpened further. “The least you could do is welcome me home, cook breakfast, or have something ready before I leave. Is that really so hard?”

I froze. The truth landed like a sledgehammer. He hadn’t asked me to move in because he loved me or wanted a shared life—he wanted a servant, someone to wait while he spent his days with Serafina.

For the first time, I raised my voice. “I told you, I’m busy too!”

Marcello let out a frustrated exhale and released my wrist. “Fine. Forget it. Tomorrow… get ready. We’re going to Serafina’s birthday party.”

I laughed bitterly. “She just got out of the hospital and she’s already throwing a party? That’s… impressive.”

“It’s a celebration for her recovery,” he corrected, as if that justified everything. Then he frowned. “Isabelle, you really despise Serafina, don’t you? You always act like this when it’s about her.”

“I don’t despise her. I just don’t like her. There’s a difference,” I shot back, turning away. “Go alone. I have plans tomorrow.”

I slammed the door to my room behind me, leaving him standing there.

The irony struck hard the next morning. My first client of the day? Serafina herself. She had booked me through her butler, which meant I had unknowingly agreed to photograph her birthday celebration.

And there I was—camera in hand—forced to watch her cling to Marcello, feeding him cake, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, all while laughing sweetly in front of the entire family and their circle of allies. Around them, whispers traveled.

“Isn’t that Marcello’s girlfriend?”

“Wow… look at her. So professional, watching her man be kissed by another and still snapping pictures like nothing’s wrong.”

I tightened my grip on the camera. Let them watch. Let them think I was powerless. I had work. I had control. And one day soon, they would see—nothing about me was disposable.

Marcello barely spared me a glance the entire evening, his indifference slicing through the room sharper than the cut of a Don’s finest blade. The tension in his posture was unmistakable—he was still irritated that I had prioritized work over attending Serafina’s grand birthday gala, an event he seemed to worship like a ritual of family honor.

The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh. How could he harbor resentment toward me when he had spent months, subtly and deliberately, proving that I was not meant to belong at his side?

Naturally, Serafina stepped in with her practiced grace, acting the concerned mediator.

“Marcello, Isabelle has a professional obligation tonight. She shouldn’t be blamed for keeping to her duties,” Serafina said, her tone soft and measured, each word dripping with that meticulously rehearsed charm, the kind trained to disarm anyone in the room. She turned toward me with that flawless, almost theatrical smile. “It actually works in your favor that she’s the photographer for the event. Why don’t you two pose together for a picture, just like the rest of our distinguished guests?”

I tightened my grip on the camera.

It was a calculated performance. Every word, every gesture was designed to place me in a spotlight of humiliation, to remind everyone that I was, as usual, the outsider in this carefully choreographed display of wealth, power, and inherited privilege.

I glanced down at myself: a simple blouse, faded jeans, my attire a stark contrast to the silk gowns and tailored suits that defined the hall. And there she was—Serafina—in a designer dress that glittered under the chandeliers, commanding attention effortlessly. Marcello, in his tailored suit marking him as heir to the Moretti empire, looked perfectly at home beside her, as though he had never belonged to anyone else.

Before I could respond, Serafina had already snatched my camera from my hands, her laugh light but insistent.

“Come on, just one photo,” she said, brushing off my protest with the ease of a seasoned socialite.

I stepped beside Marcello, every movement stiff, as she lifted the camera. Whispers immediately began to ripple through the crowd, subtle murmurs that carried the sting of gossip:

“Marcello must be ashamed to stand with her.”

“Clearly, he prefers Serafina.”

“Did you see their Monaco trip pictures? He kissed her like she already owns him.”

“If I had someone as cunning and charming as Serafina, I’d choose her too.”

Soft laughter followed. Each word punctured my skin, a thousand invisible daggers. Marcello remained silent, his expression unreadable. Not a single defense, not a single acknowledgment of my presence.

I reclaimed my camera from Serafina, my face neutral, calm, the professionalism masking the fury inside.

“This is your celebration, Serafina,” I said evenly, raising the camera to my eye. “You deserve the spotlight. Just let me know if there’s anything else you want captured.”

Serafina tilted her head, as if trying to read beneath my mask, but before she could respond, the grand doors swung open.

Marcello’s parents had arrived.

The moment they stepped in, their presence filled the room with unspoken authority, commanding respect as they moved toward Serafina’s family with smooth, practiced gestures of greeting and alliance. The subtle political undertone was not lost on anyone—the joining of two powerful families in public display, framed by Serafina’s orchestrated charm.

Serafina’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction. She turned to me, her smile sharp, controlled. “Now, take a picture of Marcello and me with our families, alright?”

Marcello didn’t hesitate. He slipped an arm around her waist with an ease that was infuriating, as though he had been waiting his entire life for this photo opportunity. Parents positioned themselves on either side, forming a tableau of perfection.

Through my camera’s lens, I saw everything with brutal clarity: Serafina leaning into him, Marcello accepting it without hesitation, the proud smiles of their parents—a family already envisioning the union as inevitable, as though my existence was irrelevant.

It struck me, hard and unyielding: this had always been the pattern. I had always been the outsider, merely tolerated, never truly claimed.

When the photo session ended, Serafina approached me again, phone in hand, smugness barely concealed beneath her veneer of politeness.

“I’ve already transferred a partial payment for your work,” she said lightly. “The rest will be sent once I review the final images.” Her tone held a subtle edge.

She added casually, almost as an afterthought, “Originally, I only booked you until the main celebration ended, but with Marcello’s parents here, there’s a secondary gathering. You’ll stay a bit longer, won’t you?”

Her eyes danced with amusement, a silent acknowledgment of the control she wielded. I simply nodded, retreating into the safety of my professionalism, camera in hand.

But as I followed Serafina to capture candid moments, fragments of a conversation reached me. My heart constricted with each word.

They were discussing Marcello and Serafina’s engagement—right there, openly, as if it were already finalized. My hands shook slightly around the camera, but I forced myself to keep shooting, to maintain the illusion of professionalism, even as everything within me fractured.

Cheers erupted around me. Glasses clinked, voices shouted encouragements. One of Marcello and Serafina’s friends from Monaco—the same group that had mocked me mercilessly—called out, urging them on:

“Kiss! Kiss!”

Serafina blushed, lowering her gaze, letting out a soft laugh. “Everyone, don’t tease us. Our parents are watching.”

Marcello only tightened his arm around her, leaning close. “Why not, my love?” he murmured.

The crowd’s excitement intensified, a roar of approval. Their parents laughed, pleased by the image of perfection. And then it happened. Serafina leaned in, and Marcello kissed her—long, deliberate, and intimate. The kind of kiss reserved for power, possession, and public display.

The guests cheered. Glasses raised.

I walked toward the pyramid of wine glasses on the table. Instead of lifting the top glass like the others, I grabbed one from the middle. The entire tower collapsed instantly, crystal shattering across the floor as gasps echoed in the hall.

I did not flinch.

Raising the glass calmly, I allowed a faint, knowing smile to curve my lips. “Congratulations,” I said coolly, voice steady. “Two shameless heirs—truly a perfect match.”

I drained the glass, set it down, and turned on my heel. Without a backward glance, I walked out of their charade of celebration, leaving chaos in my wake.

Back at the apartment, Marcello was waiting. The moment I stepped inside, he erupted.

“What the hell was that, Isabelle?” he roared, anger radiating from him like the weight of a family empire. “Do you have any idea how you humiliated me in front of everyone tonight?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Really? And you kissing your socalled childhood sweetheart in front of me—wasn’t that humiliating at all?”

Marcello ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “It was an act, Isabelle. Our families are intertwined. Our alliances are bound through business. We had to maintain appearances.”

I scoffed, arms crossed, tilting my head. “An act?”

I met his gaze, voice sharp and cold. “Then explain this, Marcello. Explain to me why you lied about Monaco.”

His jaw clenched. The room seemed to grow colder as silence fell between us, heavy and absolute.

“You really want to bring this up again?” Marcello snapped, the sharp edge in his voice slicing through the room like a blade. His frustration wasn’t just irritation—it carried the weight of a Don displeased with a lieutenant questioning his orders. “Fine. If this is eating at you that much, I’ll have Serafina remove the post. Happy now?”

I let out a quiet, bitter laugh that barely rose above a whisper, tasting of iron and disillusionment. He still didn’t get it.

“It’s not about the post, Marcello,” I said, my voice calm on the surface, but my heart burned with betrayal beneath it. “It’s about the lie. It’s about why you deceived me. It’s not the meeting with Serafina, not the kiss… not even whatever private indulgence you think excuses yourself with.”

Marcello smirked, like a Don who’d just solved a puzzle. “Ah, I see now,” he said, his tone mockingly smooth. “You’re jealous. That’s all this is. Jealousy over Serafina. That explains why you’ve been giving me the cold shoulder this past week. Typical.”

He leaned against the polished mahogany desk of his penthouse office, arms crossed, posture casual, but every syllable was sharpened with condescension.

I had always told myself to stay patient, to be understanding—the loyal partner who didn’t cause ripples in calm waters. But since he had broken his promise on my graduation night, a fissure had formed inside me, growing steadily until it finally yawned open.

“And what if I am jealous?” I shot back, my voice cutting, laced with fury and heartbreak. “Will you finally do something about it? Will you finally stay away from her?”

Marcello’s eyes flickered, a flash of impatience masked by his usual charm. “No, right? You’re still accusing me, still questioning me. But you know the truth, Isabelle. I never went to Monaco for a client. That was just an excuse. A cover. For Serafina.”

The words fell like bullets. I felt the tears slide down my cheeks despite myself. I didn’t try to stop them—they were the release of months of bottled resentment, a bitter acknowledgment of everything I’d suppressed.

“So… I think it’s best if we end this,” I whispered, my voice trembling but resolute. “The family doesn’t even know the full story between us, and soon enough, you’ll be officially bound to her anyway.”

Marcello’s expression shifted instantly—the first crack of panic I had ever seen in him. His amber eyes darkened with desperation as he stepped toward me. “No, Isabelle. Don’t say that,” he pleaded, hands gripping my shoulders with a strength that belied the vulnerability in his voice. “I can’t function without you. Don’t leave me.”

He swallowed hard, voice trembling as he continued, “I know it’s complicated now, but Serafina—everything with her—is for appearances. For the families. The one I want… the only one I care for… it’s you. Only you.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, softer now, almost fragile. “I’m sorry for missing your graduation. I’m sorry for the embassy. I’m sorry for all the times I let you down. From now on… you’re my priority. My first thought every morning. I swear it.”

I sneered silently. Another empty promise. I caught myself, wondering why I still felt anger. In less than three weeks, I’d be gone—far from his family’s empire, far from him. Why waste energy on someone who had spent years proving he didn’t deserve me?

So, as I always had, I forgave him. But this time, it was a performance, a mask I wore for my own protection.

Marcello exhaled in relief, pulling me into a warm, deceptive embrace as if nothing had changed. “Then tonight… we’ll be together?” he asked, hope glinting in his golden eyes.

I pulled away sharply. “No.”

Without another word, I turned and retreated to my room, closing the door with finality. His low chuckle trailed beneath the wood, casual and careless.

“Take your time, my girl,” he called softly, the words hollow, confident in his control.

The next morning, I prepared breakfast and packed a lunch for him, playing the obedient role he always demanded. Marcello’s lips curved into a grin when he saw it, sharp and predatory.

“Thanks. Looks like if this is how it’s going to be, everything runs smoothly between us,” he said, smug but satisfied, as if I had no choice but to comply.

I mirrored his smile—perfectly practiced, hollow.

For five days, I continued the act. All the while, I quietly packed my belongings, my heart already halfway across the ocean. I even attended a friend’s wedding alone. In the bridal room, I shared my plan with her. She cried, clutching my hand tightly.

“Don’t cry today—your happiness matters,” I whispered, forcing my own tears back.

She nodded. “Promise me we’ll meet one last time before you leave for Melbourne.”

“Of course,” I said, straightening my shoulders.

Watching my friend walk down the aisle, a sharp pang of jealousy cut through me. Marcello could have been beside me if he had honored his promises, if he had respected me as his equal. But he hadn’t. I shook my head and immersed myself in the celebration, swallowing my resentment.

Later that night, as I prepared to leave the party, my phone buzzed. Serafina.

“Isabelle,” her voice was silky, sharp as a dagger. “Marcello’s completely drunk at our friend’s gathering. You’re going to pick him up, aren’t you?”

I went—not out of concern, but because this was the last time I would perform the role of compliant partner.

Outside the private box, I overheard their conversation clearly.

“So… what happens to Isabelle once you marry Serafina, Marcello?” one of his associates asked, voice casual, laced with cruel amusement.

Marcello laughed, lazy, the sound carrying the entitled confidence of a man who believed he owned everything. “Isabelle? She’s just here to follow orders. To be on standby when I need her. Isn’t it amusing? A loyal little shadow waiting at home.”

Marcello’s associates erupted into laughter, their voices sharp, cruel, and biting enough to make the skin crawl.

“Yeah, Serafina’s perfect if you’re looking for a wife to tie you down for life,” one sneered, the smirk on his face dripping with mockery.

“So… when’s the wedding? I want frontrow seats,” another added, grinning like the outcome had been decided months ago, as if it were already etched into the ledger of their family alliances.

I froze in the shadow of the private office, my pulse hammering like the engines of a getaway car. Marcello had never truly seen me as an equal partner, someone to care for, someone he couldn’t just discard when convenient. To him, I had always been a placeholder—a temporary presence, summoned when it suited him and discarded the moment another interest distracted him.

I refused to step forward. I refused to give him any acknowledgment, any measure of my attention.

Yet the second I returned home, my phone buzzed with a notification. Serafina had posted photos from the evening. One captured them laughing, another had Marcello leaning heavily on her shoulder, intoxicated and entirely at ease, as though he belonged there.

A fierce, whitehot rage surged through me, scorching every nerve. I packed not just my essentials but stripped the apartment of every trace of myself—every book, every photograph, every little token of presence. In a fortnight, nothing of me would remain here, and nothing would link me to this life.

In the days that followed, I ignored him completely. By day, I immersed myself in photography, chasing angles, shutter clicks, and light, losing myself in the rhythm of my work. By night, I retreated to editing, to the quiet precision of my own world—one that had no place for him. Whether he returned drunk from yet another night with Serafina, whether he noticed my absence or not, it no longer mattered.

A week before my departure, the apartment was almost bare. If Marcello had even an ounce of sensitivity, he might have realized just how empty my presence had left the place. But I doubted he did.

That evening, I slung my bag over my shoulder, ready to deliver client photos and meet a friend afterward. Just as my fingers grazed the doorknob, Marcello entered, a plastic bag of beer swinging from one hand.

For the first time since that night at the bar, we were facetoface.

His amber eyes darkened, narrowing as they locked onto me. A bitter laugh, rough and sharp, escaped his throat. “Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up. Even though we share this roof, we haven’t bumped into each other all week. Not once.”

I didn’t answer. I refused to play his game.

“Haven’t we already settled things a week ago?” he pressed, sarcasm dripping like expensive liquor. “You even made me breakfast—like you always do. And then… nothing. Silence. You act as if the past week never happened. How long, Isabelle? How long are you going to keep this up?”

“I’m busy,” I said flatly, adjusting my bag as I stepped forward, determined to leave.

Before I could move, his hand shot out, gripping my wrist and yanking me back. My breath caught, pressed against the wall by his sheer presence, the room suddenly small and suffocating.

“Isabelle,” he murmured, the stench of alcohol heavy on his breath. “If you keep this up… I’ll end up marrying Serafina for real.”

I turned my face aside, refusing to meet his burning gaze. My wrist throbbed beneath his grip, but I would not yield. “Then do it. I don’t care.”

His eyes darkened further, frustration coiling through his tense frame. “Don’t care?” he growled. “When did you stop caring about me? Avoiding me doesn’t prove anything—you’re jealous, and it shows.”

He leaned closer, the menace in his voice sharp and dangerous, like a blade against silk. “Oh, right. I haven’t shown enough of my… loyalty? My love? Fine. I’ll make sure you never dare avoid me over something so insignificant again.”

The beer bag slipped from his hand, cans clattering across the floor with metallic chaos. Before I could react, he grabbed both my wrists, pressing them above my head against the wall with an unrelenting force.

“Marcello, let go! You’re drunk!” I warned, voice steady despite the rising panic. But he ignored me.

His left hand found my chin, forcing me to look at him. His fingers dug into my skin, claiming my lips with a possessive, bruising kiss that stole my breath and left me trembling.

I twisted and kicked, but my strength was nothing against his. His raw, commanding force—the man I had once loved—was shocking and terrifying.

“Marcello… it hurts,” I whispered, voice breaking. “Was your promise not to hurt me… just another lie?”

Something inside him snapped. The drunken haze evaporated instantly, leaving only the brutal clarity of what he had done. His grip slackened. His eyes widened, searching mine, as if finally seeing the wreckage he had caused.

“Isabelle… I…” he began, voice faltering, desperate.

I didn’t let him finish. The moment I could, I shoved him back and fled the apartment, heart hammering in my chest.

In the elevator mirror, I froze, staring at my reflection. Hair disheveled, face pale and raw, eyes wild.

“Bastard,” I muttered under my breath, scowling at the man I had loved too long.

Meeting my friend afterward gave some relief. Her laughter, the warmth of normal conversation, grounded me, reminding me of life outside this toxic web. I was happy for her honeymoon, her joy untied to Marcello in any way.

But the respite was shortlived. One of my clients for the day… was Serafina. I couldn’t hold her final photo rolls indefinitely, so I made my way to meet her.

She greeted me with her trademark smooth, sharp smile, flipping through the images. “These are excellent. You’ve got real skill.” She tapped her phone. “Oh, I’ve already sent the payment, including the bonus.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, ready to leave.

But she added, casually, deliberately, as if savoring every word: “By the way… since you didn’t pick him up that night, I did. Not yours—mine. We… enjoyed that night together, Isabelle.”

I froze, eyes narrowing as my stomach turned.

Serafina tilted her head, her smile cruelly sweet. “That night, when he stayed at my place, he… mistook me for you,” she said softly, tauntingly. “He was… out of control. Desperate, even.”

My body went rigid.

Her grin never wavered. “So… I’m sorry, Isabelle. But an accident happened between us. I assume Marcello told you?”

My chest tightened, hollow and leaden.

Leaning closer, her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I know our… arrangement is only for appearances, only for the families. I know you’re the one he truly wants. But Isabelle… I saw how much he enjoyed that night. The next morning, he laughed about it, saying it was the most incredible night he’d ever had.”

I swallowed hard, every breath bitter and ragged.

Her eyes gleamed, triumphant and sharp. “So… why don’t you just give up? Your relationship is already crumbling.”

A final, poisonous smile. “Oh, and one more thing… I’d like to hire you as my wedding photographer. Awkward, isn’t it? Especially since you’ll still be involved with him when the time comes.”

Finally, Serafina’s mask fell away completely, revealing the raw, unmasked truth beneath the polite façade she had worn for weeks.

“You’ve always had feelings for him, haven’t you?” I asked, my voice calm, even, but heavy with the weight of years spent swallowing frustration and resentment. Every syllable carried the bitterness of being sidelined in a game I had once believed we played together.

Serafina met my gaze without hesitation, her poise radiating confidence, as if daring me to challenge her.

“Well,” she began lightly, tilting her head in that insufferably selfassured way of hers, “I’ve always considered him a friend, someone I grew up with, someone close. But after all that’s happened these past few days… I think my feelings may have shifted. Maybe it’s more than friendship now.”

I let out a scoff that I tried to hide behind a neutral expression.

“Love isn’t a crime, is it?” she continued, her tone deceptively casual, as if fate had simply placed her in this position. “Even if you’re still involved with him, there’s no guarantee that things will last, that you’ll be the one standing beside him forever. So… why not let me have him now?”

I couldn’t help the humorless snort that escaped me.

At last, she was honest. No games, no careful façade. Just pure, unfiltered selfishness, elegantly wrapped in sweet words.

“Interesting,” I murmured, a small, almost amused smirk tugging at the corners of my lips. “I was actually considering letting go myself. Be my guest. Take him. He’s clearly yours type—nothing more, nothing less.”

Her confident smile flickered ever so slightly, a fraction of uncertainty, but I offered her no time to recover.

“However,” I added smoothly, tilting my head in deliberate, measured calm, “I make my own choices, too. My clients, my work. And you’ll need someone else to capture your wedding. I won’t be part of your big day.”

I didn’t wait for her to respond. I turned on my heel and walked away, leaving her frozen, words stuck halfway out of her mouth, speechless.

That evening, I decided to head back to my mother’s house.

When she opened the door and saw me standing there with my bags in hand, the initial shock on her face softened almost immediately, replaced by a warm, welcoming smile that seemed to melt away months of tension.

“I missed you,” I whispered, stepping forward to wrap her in a tight, lingering embrace. “Can I stay with you until I leave for Melbourne?”

Her arms enveloped me firmly, grounding me. “Of course, darling. You’ll always be my little girl, no matter how far you go.”

Her warmth, her gentle voice, reminded me of something I had long neglected—the need for comfort, for security. Since college, I had insisted I was independent, selfsufficient. Yet here I was, seeking refuge in my mother’s embrace, craving the safety I had pretended I didn’t need.

The next morning, as we sat over breakfast, I finally voiced my plans.

“I’m going to start over, Mom. A new identity. I might even take your last name while I’m at it. Is that okay?”

She listened quietly, her gaze soft and understanding. When I finished, she simply smiled, nodding without hesitation.

“If this is what you’ve truly decided, I won’t question it,” she said gently, her tone steady and comforting.

“Thanks, Mom,” I murmured, feeling the weight of her unwavering support settle over me like armor.

Three days later, my mother had to leave on a sudden business trip.

“Since you’re here, can you stay and keep an eye on things while I’m away?” she asked, sipping her coffee casually. “The housekeeper will be here, but I need someone to feed the dogs and watch over the house.”

Her two tiny, energetic terriers yipped and bounded around, spoiled and mischievous. I laughed softly.

“Of course, Mom. I’ve got it covered,” I replied.

She nodded, satisfied, then added another request, her voice quieter this time. “Also… I need your help relocating your father’s grave.”

I froze, taken aback by the sudden weight of her words.

“The cemetery is being renovated,” she explained. “I thought it would be better to move him to a larger plot, somewhere more central in the city.”

I hesitated, considering my plans for Melbourne. Originally, I had intended to stay there for only a year, but perhaps I could settle longterm, make it my new base.

“Should we move him to Melbourne, then?” I asked cautiously, unsure if it would feel right.

My mother reached over, squeezing my hand gently. “No, sweetheart. This is where he was born, where his life began. He would have wanted to stay here. If you miss him, you can always come back.”

I nodded, a bittersweet heaviness settling in my chest.

After dropping her off at the airport, I drove straight to my father’s gravesite. I carefully gathered his urn, framed photos, and the small keepsakes left behind, cradling them like fragile treasures. Then, with my mother’s car, I decided to swing by the apartment one last time to retrieve the few remaining items I hadn’t sent ahead. I wanted him to see the place I had called home during college, even if only in memory.

But as soon as I opened the apartment door, I froze.

Marcello and Serafina were there.

Marcello’s eyes widened the instant they landed on me. He stepped forward, curiosity and something more flashing across his features.

“Isabelle… where have you been staying these past few days? Your room’s empty. What does this mean?”

I shrugged casually, my tone carefully detached. “Oh, I heard from Serafina that you two have already set a wedding date. I guess it’s about time I moved o