“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 would-be 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 picture-perfect 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 sunny-side 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.

As expected, Serafina filled the air with her bubbly chatter, recounting memories of Monaco and moments shared with Marcello that I had never been part of. Listening to them felt like standing outside a fortress, barred from the inner circle of trust and affection. From time to time, she would direct a casual comment toward me—acknowledgment just enough to avoid being rude—yet every word underscored how little I belonged here. I wasn’t part of their world; I was the shadow at the table, the one who was not chosen.

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 twenty-nine 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.

Every snapshot confirmed it. Serafina pressed close to Marcello, laughing beside him, resting her head on his shoulder as if the empire he shared with me had already been hers to command. In one particularly cruel image, she had drawn on his sleeping face while his friends snapped pictures, commenting on how ‘cute’ they looked together—like they were the heirs of some perfectly scripted love story. And me? The woman who had been promised loyalty, partnership, a place at his side? I was invisible, a joke they all shared without shame. Marcello said nothing. Not a single word.

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.