Marco clearly hadn't expected my composure. His brow tightened, his face darkening.

I turned on my heel and strode out, ignoring their shocked stares. A sharp pain throbbed in my wounded arm, a dull echo of a much deeper agony.

My love for him had bled out during that month in the clinic—a month of painful treatments and his deafening silence. No calls, no visits, just one cold text message: Rest well. I'm busy.

I didn't realize he had followed me out until a shadow fell over me. Marco’s arms wrapped around my waist from behind, his face burying into my neck, his warm breath ghosting over my skin.

“Bianca gets jealous whenever marriage comes up,” he murmured. “The engagement… don’t take it seriously. It’s all my mother. She’s dead set on Bianca becoming the next Donna of the family. But to me, she’s just my sister. We can still see each other, you know. In secret…”

"I don't care," I interrupted, wrenching myself from his embrace. "There's no need for that."

We had been together for five years. I had known every inch of him, been obsessed with his every breath, his every heartbeat. But now, his touch just made my stomach churn.

Marco's expression twisted as he stared at me, as if seeing a stranger. The compliant, ever-considerate Scarlett was gone.

“She grew up with you,” I said, my voice unnervingly calm. “The engagement is what your mother wants. I won’t be the one to stand in the way.”

"Don't worry, Marco. It's family business. I understand I don't fit in. I'm genuinely resigning, not throwing a tantrum." My tone remained perfectly even.

He let out an unconscious sigh of relief. "I knew you'd understand. I…"

Before he could finish, Bianca's voice floated out from the office.

"Marco, darling, have you seen that silk robe I left here?"

Our eyes met. She froze for a second, then blinked innocently. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “I didn’t realize you were still here. Marco and I have been so inseparable, it completely slipped my mind you two were still a thing.”

I offered a faint, detached smile. "It's fine."

Then I turned and strode out of the building.

The next morning, my phone rang. It was my father. He must have heard I’d been cast aside.

“I’m getting old, figlia mia,” his deep voice rumbled through the line. “I just want you home. For five years, you’ve chased after that boy with no real standing, letting his family walk all over you.”

“Come back and help me run the family. You gave everything for Marco, and in the end, he still dismissed you as some gold digger after his family’s power.”

My father had said this to me many times before, and I had always fought him on it—because I loved Marco.

I knew the Castellano family was one of the most powerful forces in Chicago, but none of it mattered. Nothing was more important than the man I loved.

But now, my throat tightened, the words caught between old pain and new pride.

These five years in New York… I never belonged here. Not in the Ricci company, and certainly not in Marco's heart.

"When are you coming back? I’ll have everything prepared for your arrival."

A faint ache bloomed in my chest. In eight days, it would have been my five-year anniversary with Marco.

"In eight days," I said softly. "I'll settle things here, then I'll be back."

I hung up the phone—only to find Marco standing right behind me.

He frowned, leaning in to try and see the caller ID on my screen.

"Eight days? Who was that on the phone?"

I placed my phone face down on the table, affecting a casual air.

"Just a friend. We're planning a trip."

“What do you mean, you’re leaving? Who’s going to handle everything at the company?” He pressed his lips into a thin line, his tone laced with disbelief.

I almost laughed. Had he grown so accustomed to his free assistant, the one who handled his dirty work and warmed his bed?

"That's not my problem anymore," I said coldly.

The chill in my voice sparked a flash of annoyance in his eyes, but before he could retort, Bianca's voice called from downstairs.

"Marco, dinner's ready! Don't keep Mamma and Papa waiting!"

The words made my fingers tremble. I looked up at him.

When Marco and I first got together, his parents despised me. They saw me as a nobody from an ordinary family, unworthy of their heir. But back then, Marco had defied them, proudly bringing me to every family gathering and vowing that as long as he was alive, I would always have a place in New York.

This time, however, his eyes darted away. His tone was uncharacteristically harsh.

"After what happened... you know my mother's heart is weak. She can't take the stress. Seeing you right now will only make things worse for her."

He hesitated, his voice softening into a placating murmur.

"Don't overthink it. I'll handle the engagement talk. They're just closer to Bianca because they raised her. Once things calm down… they'll come around."

I watched them go, a dull ache tightening around my chest until I could barely breathe.

Five years. In just five years, he had forgotten the love he once professed, forgotten his promises that no one would ever hurt me.

He forgot everything. He forgot me. He was the one who pushed me into a sculpture of shattered glass and left me to bleed.

After countless rejections, I finally understood. He was never waiting for me. He was waiting for her.

Tears I didn't know I had left streamed down my face, dripping onto the cold floor.

I wiped them away and took a deep, shuddering breath.

Back in the apartment we had shared, I started packing.

Five years of a life together had woven us into the very fabric of this apartment.

And I had been foolish enough to believe he loved me.

The paintings on the walls were all my choice. He used to talk about having a child, about taking our little one to run on moonlit beaches. But before we ever had that child, his love had already died.

My long hours working for him often brought on crippling migraines. He found out and never forgot to call and coax me to sleep, no matter where he was. When the pain was unbearable, he learned massage techniques from the family doctor just to soothe my temples. Now, it was all a hazy, distant memory that no longer felt like mine.

He used to notice every little thing. If my eyes lingered on something in a shop window, he would secretly buy it for me, his gestures clumsy but full of love.

"I never want you to have to ask for anything," he had whispered, kissing my cheek.

I don't know when it started… but at some point, Marco simply got tired of us.

The first time I asked him to marry me, he laughed it off, saying we were too young, that marriage would make us bored with each other.

The second time, I planned a surprise, with candles and the necklace he loved on me. But before I could go through with it, I overheard him talking to one of his soldati.

"I'm bored with Scarlett. The spark is gone. But she's good to me, so I just… can't bring myself to end it."

"A woman proposing to a man... how much more obvious can I be? Hasn't she figured out I don't love her?"

The last time… I gave it everything. I stood before his parents, humbled myself, and said I wanted to marry him. I told them I didn't care about the Ricci family's power or the title of Donna. I just wanted to be his wife. But his adopted sister, Bianca—the girl he grew up with—was there. And when she heard my proposal, she flew into a jealous rage.

Now, it was over. I was finally letting him go.

I tore every picture I had ever taken of him to shreds. The one and only love letter he ever wrote me, I held to a lighter until it was nothing but ash.