“You’re the boss,” I said calmly. “It’s your right to decide where the project goes. And as for Sandra—she’s never been the issue between us.”

Matteo’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me. “Oh? Then what is the issue?”

“Even if it wasn’t Sandra, there’d be another—Clara or Martha…” My voice trailed off. “A change is a change, Matteo. There’s no ‘why’ behind it.”

He didn’t understand. His smile was mocking, as if our conversation was just another game to him. “Then tell me,” he pressed, leaning closer. “What’s really the problem?”

I ignored his question, switching gears with a colder tone. “Maybe we should discuss your investment in my business.”

He let out a dry laugh. “No matter what the reason is, I don’t have the time or desire to play your rival actor.”

His words hit like a slap and I turned my head away, stung. “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he replied, his voice dripping with disdain. “When your family accepted you back, it was because you were married to me—the Mendez Family’s leverage.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. Matteo’s accusation struck at something I had tried so hard to keep separate: my family’s affairs. I never wanted our relationship tainted by the scheming of the Argento Family, especially not by my father, Johan Argento, who had been relentless with his demands. The countless phone calls, even the surprise visits to Centrale—I had ignored them all. But Matteo was right; my father had likely approached him directly.

Bitterness rose in my throat, heavy and suffocating.

Our tense silence was broken by the abrupt ringing of Matteo’s phone. He answered quickly, his tone brisk. “I’ll be there soon.” Without another word, he turned and left.

As the door clicked shut behind him, I swallowed back the word “divorce” that had been on the tip of my tongue. I went back to packing, determined to leave on my own terms. By midnight, my suitcases were filled, every trace of my life here tucked away.

I picked up my phone, skimming through unread messages before habitually opening my social feed. The latest post was from Sandra, timestamped just five minutes earlier:

“Hospitalized after a car accident. Fortunately, he was there.”

A photo accompanied the post: a hand holding a glass of water. The hand had a distinctive circular scar—Matteo’s, from when he’d once cooked for my birthday. The dim lighting and the light-gray sofa in the background left no doubt; he was with Sandra.

So that’s why he rushed out. I thought we might at least part amicably, but it was clear now he didn’t care. Mentioning divorce to him would only be seen as another one of my “moods.” He believed I would never leave him.

He was wrong.

When he returned to find only a divorce agreement and resignation letter waiting in my place, I wondered how he’d react. Whatever his response, it wouldn’t matter anymore.

The next two weeks blurred together. I immersed myself in work, found a new apartment and ignored the spectacle of Matteo doting on Sandra. Seeing them together used to make me sick, but now it only numbed me.

After the project was completed, Matteo hosted a celebratory banquet for Sandra at the Milan Club’s hotel. I arrived, realizing only then that it was also Sandra’s birthday.

A towering three-tiered cake adorned with pink roses stood as the centerpiece. As everyone watched, Sandra made her wishes aloud.

“My first wish: May Mendez’s Group continue to prosper.”

“My second wish: May Mr. Mendez find happiness and peace.”

Her voice softened as she reached her final wish. She closed her eyes, a knowing smile playing at her lips and blew out the candle marking her twenty-fourth birthday.

The crowd cheered as the candles were extinguished, the bright lights flashing back on. I stood at the very back, watching the celebration with a detached gaze. My eyes lingered on Matteo’s smile, directed so warmly at the woman beside him.

“Ms. Argento, please, have some cake!” Sandra’s voice pierced through the noise as she made her way towards me, holding a small butterfly-shaped cake in her hands. “Thank you for helping me with the project and for coming to my birthday banquet.”

I glanced down, noticing the golden mango pieces beneath the creamy white frosting. Forcing a polite smile, I declined, “Thank you, but I’m on a diet.”

Sandra hesitated, clearly taken aback by my refusal. An awkward silence settled between us, broken only when Matteo called out from across the room. “Secretary March, didn’t you just have hot pot with your friends a few days ago?”

His words were casual, but the pointed tone was impossible to miss. He was by my side in an instant, his gaze challenging. I met his eyes, unfazed. “So?”

Without missing a beat, he grasped Sandra’s wrist, guiding the cake back towards me. “It’s just a cake, no need to be so calculating, Secretary March.”

Of all things, Matteo knew mango was my allergen. I remembered the first time I visited the Mendez Family home—his grandmother had offered me a mango pastry and I ended up in the hospital that night. Matteo had stayed by my bedside, looking distraught. “Why are you so stubborn? You don’t need to compromise yourself just to please my family.”

I’d smiled weakly through the IV drip. “It’s fine. I wanted to make a good first impression.”

The memory flashed through my mind, but I pushed it aside. In a level tone, I replied, “I’m allergic to mango. Since Mr. Mendez likes it, he can enjoy my share.”

Matteo’s expression darkened for a brief moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before it disappeared. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought it was regret—or even heartache.

“That’s a shame!” Sandra chirped, her voice light and airy. “This cake was special-ordered by Mr. Mendez. He made sure it was perfect for today, even booked it a week in advance!”

She turned to Matteo, blinking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “But no need to force it, right?”

Her voice was sweet and endearing and he looked back at her, amusement playing on his features. “It’s your birthday—you decide.”

A wave of disgust washed over me at their public display. It was exhausting. I grabbed my coat from the sofa. “Enjoy your celebration. I need to leave.”

Without looking back, I walked out, desperate to escape the stifling atmosphere. As I stepped outside, my phone buzzed. It was a call from my real estate agent—my new apartment was ready. I could move in tomorrow.

The half-hour drive from the clubhouse to Centrale felt like a blur of memories—four years of life with Matteo replaying in my mind. Once I got home, I opened a drawer and took out our wedding photos, packing them neatly into cardboard boxes. I contacted a service that specialized in handling old wedding memorabilia and scheduled a pickup.

Turning to my computer, I found the hidden folder filled with digital photos. Each image was a snapshot of happier times. My fingers trembled as I selected all the files, hovering over the delete button. I hesitated for just a second, then clicked. Sweetness and pain—both real—were erased with a keystroke.

The next morning, Lucy arrived in her SUV. She took one look at the two modest boxes of my belongings and scoffed. “Four years together and this is all you’ve got?”

I hefted one box into the trunk. “Anything not bought by me, I don’t want.”

I left behind every cheongsam, every designer dress, every glittering piece of jewelry Matteo had given me. I didn’t need any reminders of him. Not anymore.

“Leaving like this—quitting without notice—if Matteo finds out, won’t he use the Argento Family against you?” Lucy’s words weighed heavily in the car.

I froze, the realization hitting me hard. My family hadn’t pestered me about the last project financing—was it possible that Matteo intervened? Or perhaps it was Mendez’s father? I couldn’t bring myself to care; my relationship with my family was already devoid of any real sentiment.

Matteo had been right—the Argento Family’s belated recognition of me wasn’t out of paternal affection. They only sought to use my connection with the Mendez Family, exploiting me as a bridge to their own influence.

Sitting in the passenger seat, I responded quietly, “Let him do what he wants. I don’t care.”

Lucy nodded. “Alright. As planned, we’ll take some time off. When the divorce agreement becomes official, we’ll come back, catch him off guard and start fresh.”

It wasn’t until later that I found out the truth: Matteo had unknowingly signed the divorce papers, slipped in with a stack of contracts by his father. He had insisted on secrecy until the divorce was finalized, offering me a substantial sum of money as an incentive and promising the Argento Family an investment in the Centrale area project as a bargaining chip.

I refused. “I’m not divorcing Matteo for money,” I told Matteo’s father. “I’ve given two years to this company and one to this marriage. I’ll only take what belongs to me. As for the project, whether you invest or not is your decision.”

After tying up loose ends, I headed to Mendez’s Group one last time. Matteo was on a business trip to Venice and for once, he hadn’t brought Sandra along. By chance, I saw my resignation letter lying conspicuously on his desk.

“Ms. Argento, you’re resigning?” Sandra’s voice broke the silence. It was lunchtime and most employees had gone downstairs to eat, leaving just the two of us in the office.

I continued packing without even glancing her way. “He’ll find out when he comes back.”

“Of course. Unless someone talks too much, he won’t know until then.”

Sandra smirked but kept her mouth shut. She wasn’t foolish enough to reveal her hand.

I paused. “If I’m not mistaken, it was you in the bathroom that day, wasn’t it? You’ve known I was planning to divorce him and leave. It must make you very happy, doesn’t it? Matteo is almost within your grasp. Congratulations in advance.”

Sandra’s expression didn’t falter. She wasn’t about to let a single word slip that might give her away.

When I left the towering, thirty-three-story office building, I glanced back at the southeast corner window on the top floor. My emotions were tangled and raw. I hailed a taxi to the airport, where Lucy was already waiting.

Check-in. Security. Boarding.

At 25,000 feet in the first-class cabin, the clouds below rolled like a dreamscape, vast and intoxicating. I turned to my phone, scrolled to Matteo’s WhatsApp profile and deleted it. I blocked his number too, severing every last connection.