Vincent drove me back to his mansion in Manhattan.

I sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the passing neon lights, a gaping void in my chest.

"We're here." Vincent parked the car and walked around to open my door.

Why was it always like this? He didn't love me, but he slept with me, and he was still so damn considerate.

A lump formed in my throat.

I got out of the car and followed him, dragging my suitcase behind me.

I knew this house all too well. Every corner held a memory of our bodies tangled together.

Vincent reached for my suitcase, about to take it to my usual bedroom.

"Don't," I said, heading straight for a guest room. "I'm only staying for twelve days. This is fine."

Vincent stopped in his tracks. "You can stay as long as you want."

I put my suitcase in the guest room and closed the door.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone. Twelve more days, and I would leave New York forever.

The next morning, I went downstairs. Vincent was already in the dining room. He saw me and gestured to the seat across from him.

I sat. A maid brought me milk and toast.

"Vincent," I began.

He looked up, his gaze calm behind his glasses.

"Did you know Isabella is Maria's daughter?"

"I found out yesterday," he said, his face unreadable, showing no hint of guilt.

I gave a bitter smile. "What is Isabella to you?"

Vincent put down his coffee cup. "A high school classmate. She took a bullet for me once, saved my life. She's been recovering in Europe ever since."

"Really? Just a classmate? A savior? Is it that simple?"

Vincent's brow furrowed slightly. "Sophia, I don't want you targeting her just because she has returned to the Romano family."

I laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. "Is that a warning?"

"It's a reminder," Vincent's tone was cold. "Isabella's health is fragile. She can't handle any trouble."

I nodded, saying nothing more.

Vincent was more direct in his defense of Isabella than I had ever imagined. What else was there to ask?

"I understand," I said, getting to my feet. "I'm going upstairs."

I stayed in the guest room all day. The maid brought lunch and dinner to my door. I didn't go down.

That night, I lay in bed, unable to sleep. Usually, Vincent would open the door around this time, push me down without a word, and grip my waist while calling me Principessa.

But tonight, the hallway was silent.

Of course. His first love was back. Why would he be thinking of me?

The next day was Saturday. Vincent didn't go to the compound.

At ten in the morning, he knocked on my door.

"Sophia, there's a party tonight. You're coming with me."

I opened the door. Vincent was already dressed in a sharp black suit.

"What party?"

"A gathering between the families."

Not wanting to be alone in this house full of our memories, I nodded.

At seven that evening, Vincent's car pulled up to a private club.

I followed him inside and found the place lavishly decorated with flowers and streamers.

It didn't look like any mafia gathering I'd ever been to.

Before I could ask, I heard a familiar voice.

"Vincent! You're finally here!"

Isabella, in a white evening gown, fluttered over like a butterfly. She saw me, and her expression faltered for a fraction of a second before she plastered on a sweet smile.

"Sophia's here too! That's wonderful!"

I glanced around and saw a large banner that read, "Welcome Home, Isabella."

It was a welcome party. For her.

Vincent had brought me to Isabella's welcome home party.

I turned to leave, but Isabella stopped me.

"Sophia, what's wrong? Are you not feeling well?" she asked, her voice dripping with concern. "I heard you moved out of your house. Is it because of me? I'm so sorry, I had no idea Uncle Romano would let me stay in your room."

Her voice was soft and gentle, but loud enough for everyone around us to hear. A few guests looked my way with questioning eyes.

"It's fine," I replied curtly. "It's just a room."

"But Uncle Romano said you even disowned him." Isabella's eyes welled with tears. "It's all my fault. If I hadn't come back..."

"Isabella," I cut her off. "The reason I disowned him has nothing to do with an outsider like you."

Isabella's tears began to fall. She looked pitifully at Vincent.

Vincent walked over, shot me a warning look, then said gently to Isabella, "Don't cry. Your eyes will get swollen."

He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her tears. Isabella's tears turned to a smile. She blinked her wet lashes and said, "You're so good to me, Vincent."

I stood to the side, watching this tender tableau unfold.

A sharp pain pierced my heart.

In ten days, I would be gone for good, and I knew I would never be on the receiving end of that kind of tenderness from him.

I turned and walked to the bar, grabbed a glass of champagne, and downed most of it in one go.

Once the party started, I realized just how attentive Vincent was to Isabella.

He pulled out her chair, fetched her drinks, and even adjusted the strap of her dress when it slipped, his hand brushing her shoulder with a familiar ease.

I had never received any of that.

In the two years I was with Vincent, he had never done those things for me. I thought it was just his personality—cool and reserved, above such trivial gestures of affection.

I was wrong.

He just wasn't willing to do them for me.

I nursed my champagne, listening to Isabella laugh and chat with other guests. She spoke of her recovery in Europe, of how much she missed New York. Every word was graceful and proper.

"Isabella is such a lovely girl," a woman next to me whispered to her friend. "The way Vincent looks after her, they're sure to end up together."

My hand tightened around the stem of my glass.

"Alright, everyone, let's play a game!" the host announced, livening up the room. "Truth or Choice!"

The big screen lit up as the host explained the rules. "Two pictures will appear on the screen. Everyone votes for their favorite, but Vincent, as our guest of honor, you'll make the final choice for everyone!"

The first set of photos was of two different red wines. Vincent chose the one on the left without hesitation.

"Because Isabella is sensitive to anything too strong," he explained.

The room erupted in good-natured teasing.

The second set was two bouquets: red roses and white lilies. Vincent chose the lilies.

"Isabella prefers a more subtle fragrance."

The third set was two vacation spots: the Maldives and Switzerland.

"Switzerland. Isabella needs fresh air for her recovery."

Every choice Vincent made was for Isabella.

I watched him on stage and thought about our two years together. He had never asked what I liked, never remembered my favorite food or where I dreamed of going.

"Last round!" the host said excitedly. "This one's a little special. It's photos of two beautiful women!"

Two pictures appeared on the screen.

On the left was Isabella. She was in a white dress, smiling faintly in a garden, looking as pure as an angel.

On the right was me. I was in a crimson evening gown from some forgotten party, my gaze fiery and defiant.

The room fell silent.

All eyes were on Vincent.

He stood on stage, staring at the screen, and for a few seconds, he said nothing.

Those few seconds stretched into an eternity.

I knew he would choose Isabella, but I still clung to a final, desperate sliver of hope that he would choose me.

Even if it was just for show. Even if it was out of pity.

"I choose..." Vincent's voice echoed through the microphone. "Isabella."

The crowd burst into loud applause and cheers.

I set my champagne glass down, turned, and rushed out of the room.

In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, taking deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm the storm inside me.

I shouldn't have expected anything. Not from the very beginning.

I composed myself and walked out, ready to return to the party.

The hallway was dimly lit. As I rounded a corner, a few drunk men blocked my path.

"Hey, beautiful. All alone?" one of them slurred, stumbling closer. "Have a drink with us."

"Get out of my way," I said, my voice dangerously low.

"Don't be so cold," another one jeered, reaching for me. "We just want to get to know you..."

I backed away and saw Vincent standing in the doorway of our private room.

He was talking to a guest. I shot him a desperate, pleading look.

Vincent saw me. His face darkened, and he started to walk over.

Just then, a cry of pain came from inside the room. "Ouch! My foot..."

Vincent immediately spun around. He saw Isabella clutching a chair, her face pale.

"What's wrong?" he asked, rushing to her side.

"I think I twisted my ankle..." Isabella said, her eyes welling with tears.

Vincent immediately knelt to examine her ankle, completely forgetting about me in the hallway.

Isabella whispered something to him. Without even looking back in my direction, Vincent replied, "Don't worry about it. She can handle herself."

In that moment, my heart didn't just break. It shattered.

I grabbed a wine bottle from a nearby service table and smashed it against the wall.

Shards of glass flew everywhere. The sound startled the drunk men.

I held up the broken bottle, the jagged glass pointed at them. "Get lost!"

Seeing the feral fury in my eyes, they scrambled away.

The glass had cut my palm. Blood dripped onto the floor.

I looked at the wound, feeling the sting. What was this little bit of pain compared to the agony in my soul?

After the party, I stood alone outside the club, waiting for a car.

Isabella came out, with Vincent carefully helping her walk.

"Sophia," Isabella said, hobbling over to me. "I'm so sorry about what happened earlier. I twisted my ankle so suddenly, Vincent couldn't get to you. But it looks like you handled it well."

She glanced at my injured hand, a flash of triumph in her eyes.

"I did," I said with a cold smile. "I've always been good at handling my own problems."

"That's good," Isabella smiled sweetly. "To be honest, I was a little worried when Vincent brought you tonight. After all, you two used to..."

"Used to what?"

"You don't actually think Vincent has special feelings for you, do you?" Isabella leaned in, her voice a low, venomous whisper. "Sophia, dear, Vincent just pities you. You're homeless now, so he took you in out of charity. That's all."

"Is that so?"

"Of course," Isabella's eyes were sharp and malicious. "You saw the game tonight. Vincent only has room in his heart for me. It's been that way since high school. That will never change."

Just then, a black sedan lost control and sped straight toward us.

In a split second, Vincent lunged forward and threw his arms around Isabella, shielding her with his body.

And me? I was struck hard by the out-of-control car and thrown violently to the ground.

As the car hit me, my consciousness began to fade.

Pain shot through my entire body, but what hurt more was the absolute, crushing despair of being abandoned.

Flashes of memory flooded my mind.

The first time I saw Vincent, sitting behind his desk, the cold light glinting off his glasses. Me, deliberately provoking him, and him, completely unmoved.

The first time he pinned me down, calling me Principessa, his voice low and ragged. I had thought it was love.

Countless nights, lying in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart, thinking I had finally found my home.

The final image was frozen in my mind: Vincent, without a moment's hesitation, diving to protect Isabella.

And me, like some disposable bystander, left to face the danger all alone.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in a hospital bed.

The room was quiet, but I could hear Vincent on the phone just outside my curtain.

"Isabella, does it still hurt?" His voice was so gentle it felt alien to me.

"Much better, thank you, Vincent," Isabella's voice was frail. "If you hadn't grabbed me in time, I might have..."

"Don't think about that," Vincent soothed her. "The doctor said you were just shaken up, no external injuries."

"Vincent, if it happened again, you would still save me first, right?"

Vincent didn't hesitate. "Of course."

"But Sophia got hit..."

"She has no reason to be angry," Vincent's voice was calm, logical. "In an emergency, of course I'm going to save the more fragile person. She understands that."

I closed my eyes, feeling as if someone had just plunged a knife into my heart.

So, in Vincent's mind, I didn't even have the right to be angry.

Footsteps approached, and the curtain around my bed was pulled back.

Vincent stood there. Seeing that I was awake, his face held not a single trace of guilt. "You're awake?"

"Yeah," my voice was hoarse.

"The doctor said you have a mild concussion and some scrapes on your leg. Nothing serious," Vincent said. "I've arranged for the best medical team. I'll stay here to take care of you for the next few days."

"Thanks," I said, staring up at the ceiling. "I'll pay you back for the medical bills in ten days."

Vincent frowned. "What are you talking about? What's in ten days?"

"I said I'll pay you back," I turned to look at him, my gaze flat. "And for the cost of my stay at your place. I'll settle it all at once."

Vincent's expression was strained. "Sophia, you don't have to keep score with me."

"Why not?" my voice was devoid of emotion. "We were never anything to each other, were we?"

The room fell silent for a few long seconds.

Vincent seemed to want to say something, but in the end, he just said, "Get some rest."

For the next few days, Vincent did stay at the hospital to look after me.

He checked on me regularly, made sure the nurses gave me my medication on time, and even tested the temperature of my food before letting me eat it.

But I remained cold and distant.

I didn't cry, didn't throw tantrums, didn't demand his attention. I treated him like a kind stranger, polite but utterly detached.

This new version of me seemed to make Vincent uncomfortable.

On the third afternoon, Vincent sat in the chair by my bed, watching me listlessly flip through a magazine.

"Sophia," he began.

"Hmm?" I didn't look up.

"About that night..." Vincent paused. "I saved Isabella first, but it wasn't because I didn't want to save you."

He continued, "Isabella's body is weak. She couldn't have survived the impact. It was the only logical choice..."

I put down the magazine, cutting him off. "I know."

Vincent looked at me, a strange, unreadable emotion in his eyes. "You're really not angry?"

"Do you want me to be?"

Just then, a commotion erupted in the hallway.

"Hurry! Get her to the ER!"

"What happened?"

"Miss Isabella fell down the stairs! She's hurt badly!"

The color drained from Vincent's face.

He shot to his feet. "I have to go handle something," he said quickly.

He walked to the door, then glanced back at me. "I'll be back to check on you later."

I listened to his hurried footsteps fade down the hall and closed my eyes, a wave of profound exhaustion washing over me.

Isabella had once again succeeded in taking Vincent away from me.

And I no longer had the strength to fight for him.

In a week, he'd be free to be with her anyway.