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 so-called 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 front-row 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, white-hot 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 face-to-face.

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 short-lived. 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.”