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.”

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 self-assured 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.

---

After everything Marcello had done earlier that morning, the thought of returning to the apartment filled me with hesitation. I had even gone so far as to block his number. Serafina’s words had confirmed what I had already known in my heart—I had no reason to linger in that space any longer. Only seven days remained before I left the city for Melbourne, and most of my belongings were either packed or sent ahead. The apartment was little more than a temporary storage space now, holding only the absolute essentials.

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, self-sufficient. 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 long-term, 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 out, isn’t it?”

Marcello whirled toward Serafina, confusion and alarm crossing his face.

Serafina dropped her gaze immediately, putting on the mask of innocence. “Sorry, Marcello. My butler was planning to hire her as our wedding photographer. Maybe that’s how Isabelle found out.” She turned back to me, smiling apologetically, her voice sugary and calculated. “But I already told Isabelle—it’s all just an act, nothing real.”

I smirked internally. So this was the web of lies they had spun—perfectly synchronized deceit.

Marcello exhaled sharply and turned back to me, frustration written all over him. “Isabelle… I’ve explained. Everything is a charade. Why won’t you believe me?”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” I said innocently, tilting my head. “That’s exactly why I made it easy for you to pretend. Imagine if your parents had walked in and seen you still living here. What chaos that would have caused.”

Marcello ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Isabelle, my parents would never come here. I wouldn’t allow it. What more do you need from me?”

His desperation bordered on absurdity.

“Right now,” he continued, trying to regain control, “Serafina and I are figuring out a way out of this arranged union. Can you… just calm down?”

Serafina seized the moment, stepping forward with honeyed words dripping with manipulation.

“That’s right, Isabelle. We’ve even considered going abroad with you,” she said, eyes glinting with faux sincerity. “Then you could marry Marcello in secret, without his parents ever knowing.”

I blinked, incredulous.

“We?” I asked, voice flat, dark with disbelief.

Marcello jumped in, as if rehearsed. “Yes. The three of us. My parents will think I married Serafina, but in truth… it will be you.”

I let out a humorless chuckle, the corners of my mouth twitching.

“The three of us, huh?” I repeated, voice laced with mockery. “How… convenient.”

Serafina’s confidence faltered, replaced with theatrical desperation. She fell to her knees, clutching my hand with an exaggerated grip.

“Isabelle… what about me?” she whimpered, her tone thick with calculated distress. “My parents would be furious. I’d have nowhere to go.”

As she spoke, she shook my arm deliberately, her grip tight.

I yanked my hand back instinctively. The urn I had been holding slipped from my grasp, falling with a soft but jarring thud.

Time seemed to stretch, almost to the point of distortion, as the porcelain urn slipped from my grasp and crashed onto the marble floor, exploding into a constellation of jagged fragments. The ashes that had been contained within scattered across the tiles like gray dust caught in a sudden storm, drifting as if carried by invisible currents of betrayal.

For a moment, the world stilled. Even the hum of the city outside—the honking cars, the distant voices, the clatter of life—felt muffled, insignificant.

Then Serafina let out a shrill, theatrically pained scream, flailing backward as if performing for some unseen audience. Her body landed directly on the scattered shards.

“Argh!” she shrieked, the sound sharp and deliberate, a mixture of genuine pain and carefully feigned suffering.

A few pieces of glass pierced her wrist, leaving thin, crimson lines that caught the light. Before I could even process the scene, a shard found its way to my foot, sending a scorching spike of pain through my nerves. But nothing, absolutely nothing, matched the ache of seeing my father’s ashes—his final legacy—splayed across the floor, desecrated.

Marcello reacted instantly, surging toward Serafina with the frantic energy of a man desperate to control a situation spiraling out of his grasp. He scooped her into his arms, his grip tight and possessive. “Serafina! Stay with me! Don’t close your eyes! Are you with me?” His tone was sharp, urgent, almost panicked.

And then, almost violently, his gaze snapped toward me. Rage contorted his otherwise handsome features into something raw and dangerous.

“Why would you bring something so volatile into my home?” he spat, his voice coiling like a whip. “Look at the mess! Did you intend to hurt her, Isabelle? Did you?!”

I froze.

Did he just—call my father’s urn dangerous?

He didn’t inquire about the shard embedded in my foot. He didn’t glance at my trembling hands or the pain etched across my features. His concern, as always, was directed entirely at Serafina—the girl who had engineered the entire incident for attention. I was invisible in that moment.

Serafina whimpered softly, curling into him as though seeking protection. Her chest rose and fell sharply, breath hitching, before she finally collapsed, fainting into Marcello’s arms.

“Serafina? Serafina!” Marcello’s voice cracked as he shook her gently, his desperation raw. Without a glance in my direction, he hoisted her higher and stormed toward the door, urgency propelling his every step.

Before he disappeared from sight, he threw me one last, venomous glare.

“If anything happens to her,” he hissed, teeth clenched, “you will answer for it, Isabelle. Do you understand me?”

I stood frozen, surrounded by shattered porcelain and my father’s scattered ashes. The cold marble pressed against my knees, cutting through my dress, yet Marcello didn’t see me. He didn’t see the blood trickling from my foot or the tremor in my hands. His world consisted solely of Serafina—the girl who had orchestrated her own disaster.

A hollow emptiness crept into me, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, trembling, I crouched and began to gather the pieces of the urn, treating each shard as if it could absorb my grief, as if it could somehow stitch together the fragments of my broken heart.

Tears blurred my vision, relentless and hot, as my throat tightened with unspoken sorrow. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my own pulse.

It was impossible to tell which cut deeper: the violation of my father’s memory or Marcello’s unyielding betrayal. After everything, why did it still sting so sharply to watch him choose Serafina over me? Why did the familiar ache of disappointment gnaw at my chest, unrelenting, cruel?

As I collected the last shards, the bitter truth hit me like shards of glass themselves. I had spent days away, hiding at my mother’s house, and Marcello hadn’t come once to find me. He knew exactly where I was—but he didn’t care enough to show.

From the start, I had known the truth—he never intended to make what we had permanent. That was why he insisted we conceal it from my mother. But I had been foolish, desperate enough to trust him. I had believed he would make things right on my graduation day, finally claim me, finally honor what we had shared.

The last twenty-four hours shattered that illusion. I had been the one always reaching, always mending, always begging to salvage something broken. But no more. I was done.

Hands trembling, I gathered the remaining urn fragments and ashes, inhaling shakily before straightening. I packed the final pieces of my belongings into the car, steeling myself for the last journey to my father’s resting place.

The following day, I visited the U.S. Embassy to collect my approved visa, passport, and newly issued identification. Stepping out onto the streets, a peculiar lightness filled my chest—a fragment of the weight I had carried for so many years lifting, though the ache lingered stubbornly.

Night fell, and with it, a gnawing emptiness. The countless years spent bending to Marcello’s whims, my silent loyalty, the endless compromises—all crashed down over me in an unrelenting wave. For the first time, I went to a club, a place I had avoided my entire life. I had spent years performing the role of the “perfect girl,” the dutiful partner, and none of it had mattered. Marcello had abandoned me too many times; tonight, the tables had turned. Tonight, it was I who walked away.

Initially, I was cautious. Every man who approached was met with measured distance, a defensive armor built from years of careful observation. But as the hours passed, as alcohol coursed through my veins and dulled the sharp edges of my vigilance, I allowed myself to loosen. The music wrapped around me, drowning out the day’s pain, letting me drift free, if only briefly.

Someone drew closer, a tall figure with dark, unreadable eyes and a smirk that hinted at both mischief and understanding. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t need to. He simply studied me, assessing, waiting.

“Are you new here?” he asked finally, his voice low, casual, but edged with something dangerous, something knowing.

I turned toward him, narrowing my eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“You look around too much,” he replied, a faint chuckle tugging at his lips. “The regulars don’t do that. They already know what’s what. You… seem like someone trying to forget.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Aren’t we all?”

Understanding flickered in his gaze, subtle but unmistakable. He extended a hand. “Then maybe we can forget together.”

I hesitated, then, without overthinking, took it. Even swayed by the alcohol, I maintained control, aware of my boundaries. As the room began to tilt and spin, I stepped back carefully, a small, deliberate measure of self-preservation.

The last thing I remember before everything blurred was him asking if I needed a ride home, calm and patient, a hint of care threading through his voice.

The next morning, I woke in an unfamiliar bed, sunlight cutting across crisp, foreign sheets.