“Sofia Santoro,” my brother said into the line, his voice edged with suspicion and concern, “did someone cross you?”

He paused, as if weighing every breath I took. Even with miles between us, he could hear it—the tension I tried so hard to bury beneath indifference.

I let out a soft laugh, light on the surface, though bitterness coiled tight around my throat. “No. Nothing like that. I’ve just… made up my mind. If I’m being married off either way, does it truly matter who ends up beside me?”

“You’re serious?” His tone dropped, gentler now but still probing. “Sofia, if there’s trouble, you don’t have to carry it alone. This rush—this sudden willingness—what changed? You never wanted this life.”

Because I never did. My loyalty, my heart—it had all been handed to Rocco long before duty ever entered the conversation. But loyalty meant nothing when you were only ever a substitute. After years of secrecy, waiting in shadows, loving a man who kept one foot elsewhere, I finally saw the truth. I was never the choice. Just the placeholder.

“I told you already,” I said, forcing another small laugh, sharper this time. “I’ve thought it through. I’m not getting any younger. In our world, waiting too long makes you… irrelevant.”

“Don’t talk like that,” he snapped, slipping back into the voice of a boss, not just a brother. “I’ll arrange an introduction with the man we selected. At least see who you’ll be tied to.”

“There’s no need,” I replied calmly, even as something inside me cracked. “I trust our parents’ judgment. They wouldn’t align me with anyone careless. Arranged or not, I’m sure the decision was calculated.”

Silence filled the line. Then came his sigh—heavy, conflicted. Years ago, my refusal to fall in line had rattled the family, especially him. Hearing me finally yield seemed to lift a weight off his shoulders.

“I’m relieved you’ve accepted it,” he said quietly. “When are you coming back? Are you sure you don’t want to meet him before we seal anything?”

“No,” I answered without hesitation, practicality hardening my voice. “The faster it’s done, the faster the family can move forward. Set the date. One month from now.”

“Alright,” he agreed, though doubt lingered beneath the words. “One more thing… are you still in contact with Rocco? I heard Antonella’s back in the city. Maybe you should invite him. Might bring some luck to the union.”

The words hit like ice down my spine. So he knew. Of course he did. In this world, nothing stayed hidden forever. No wonder Rocco had insisted our affair remain buried for years.

I lowered my eyes, swallowing the sharp sting blooming in my chest. “Don’t involve him,” I muttered. “We’re… not close anymore.”

Just then, the faint click of a lock turning echoed through the room. I ended the call quickly, my pulse spiking as I straightened.

When I looked up, Rocco stood in the doorway.

His smile was effortless, devastating. His eyes shone with a warmth that tightened my chest—but I knew better now. That look wasn’t meant for me. It never truly had been.

“Not close to who?” he asked lightly, curiosity threading his tone.

“To you,” I replied, blunt despite the tremor in my voice.

His brow arched. Before I could step away, he crossed the space between us and pulled me into his arms. Amusement curved his lips as he leaned in, his breath brushing my ear.

“Is that so?” he murmured, teasing and low. “Then explain something to me, sweetheart. How exactly are we not close? After everything we’ve shared?”

Once, that closeness had made my heart soar. Now it sent unease racing through my veins. I shifted in his grip—and then I saw it. A faint smear of lipstick staining his collar.

The burns around my wrist pulsed painfully, each throb echoing the betrayal I hadn’t escaped. Tears rose before I could stop them, hot and traitorous.

“Sofia… what’s wrong?” His voice changed instantly, confidence giving way to alarm. He rolled up my sleeve, revealing the angry marks beneath.

His face darkened. “When did this happen? Who did this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

The concern in his eyes looked real. And somehow, that hurt more than indifference ever could. Had he truly erased the banquet from his memory so easily?

I said nothing.

I stood there, torn between ripping away the illusion he clung to—or letting him continue believing everything between us was still untouched, still normal, still his to keep.

“Enough,” he said quietly, firm but gentle. “Stop crying. I’ll deal with it.”

Rocco brushed my hair back with practiced ease, his thumb sweeping away the tears that kept slipping down my face. He pressed a brief kiss against my temple before straightening and heading off to grab a cold compress, muttering under his breath like this was all routine.

“Always acting like you don’t need anyone,” he added over his shoulder, half-teasing, half-scolding. “Yet the moment you get hurt, you fall apart. What would you do if I wasn’t around?”

I didn’t answer. My eyes stayed fixed on the raw, reddened skin circling my wrist. Seven years. Seven years of being sheltered, soothed, protected by him. Wrapped in his attention like it was something permanent. What would I have done without Rocco?

The truth hit harder than the pain: I didn’t want to find out anymore. I didn’t want his care, his concern, or this hollow imitation of intimacy. Not now. Not ever again.

That night refused to release me into sleep. Whether it was the burning in my wrist or the quiet collapse happening in my chest, rest wouldn’t come. I shifted endlessly beneath the covers, sweat clinging to my skin, begging for unconsciousness. It took hours before exhaustion finally dragged me under.

At dawn, rough hands shook me awake.

I groaned and tried to swat him away, but Rocco only laughed softly and leaned down, brushing a quick kiss across my lips.

The lingering fog vanished instantly. Anger flared so sharply I almost shoved him away—almost slapped him—but I stopped myself at the last second.

“Good morning,” he said lightly. “Did my sleepy little star finally wake up?”

I turned my head aside and wiped my mouth with clear irritation.

“It’s the weekend,” I muttered as I pushed myself upright. “Would it kill you to let me sleep?”

His teasing expression dissolved into concern. “You were burning up last night. You didn’t even notice. Get dressed—we’re going to see a doctor.”

I studied his face. The worry was real, etched deep between his brows. But I couldn’t tell anymore if it was meant for me or simply the role he was used to playing.

I didn’t argue. I followed him anyway.

In the clinic corridor, fate intervened.

We nearly ran straight into Antonella.

She was favoring one foot, moving carefully, her expression pinched with discomfort. The moment Rocco saw her, his entire demeanor shifted.

The man who had been hovering over me moments earlier didn’t spare me a glance as he hurried to her side, one arm instantly supporting her weight.

“What happened?” he asked, urgency threading his voice.

Antonella’s eyes flicked past him—to me—and she offered a faint, almost apologetic smile. “Just twisted my ankle. What a coincidence. You’re here too?”

Rocco hesitated for the briefest second, then turned toward me. The look on his face—controlled, composed, faintly guilty—was one I knew far too well. It always surfaced when Antonella did.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “A friend’s kid sister had a fever. I brought her in.”

I felt nothing. No shock. No anger. Just a dull acceptance. To the outside world, I had always been that—someone else’s sister. A detail. A secret.

Antonella nodded politely. “You should take care of her. I’ll be fine. I can head over there myself.” She gestured toward another section of the clinic.

Rocco didn’t even hesitate. He bent down and lifted Antonella into his arms with effortless care. “I’ll carry you. Sofia, wait here.”

I watched them move away together, something hollow spreading through my chest. Maybe it was the fever weakening my body. Maybe it was the sight of him prioritizing her without a second thought. My legs trembled, and I leaned against the wall to steady myself.

He never looked back.

It didn’t matter that I was sick. It didn’t matter that I was standing there alone. In that moment, nothing about me seemed to matter at all.

Rocco wore perfection well—until Antonella appeared. Then everything he tried to hide spilled through the cracks. And he didn’t even realize it.

I forced a thin, bitter smile and turned toward the examination room on my own.

The results were immediate. The thermometer blinked an alarming number—41.3°C. The burn on my wrist had worsened, infected and inflamed, aggravated by stress and neglect. On top of that, a viral fever had set in. The doctor prescribed boiled medicinal herbs and a bitter infusion.

Out of habit, my fingers reached for my phone.

Then I stopped.

Habit was dangerous. Habit was how I’d stayed too long.

A quiet laugh escaped me as I slipped the phone back into my bag. Carrying the medicine alone, I headed to the patient lounge—no escort, no hand to guide me, no one to lean on.

And for the first time, I didn’t ask for one.

The hours crawled by as I forced myself to finish the bitter herbal brew and thick medicinal infusion the clinic had prescribed. Each swallow felt heavier than the last. The room tilted every time I shifted my weight, dizziness rolling through me in waves. More than once, I had to clutch the cool edge of the marble counter to keep myself upright, my knuckles whitening as I fought the weakness.

I reached for my phone, meaning to call Rocco—but my chest tightened the moment the screen lit up. No messages. No missed calls. Not even a careless “Are you home?” or “Rest well.” Nothing.

Disappointment settled deep in my stomach.

After a long breath, I dialed his number anyway, schooling my voice into something steady. “Rocco, I’m still at the clinic,” I said evenly.

There was a brief silence, just long enough to make my pulse jump. When he finally spoke, his words stumbled slightly. “I… I meant to go back and get you. After I took Antonella home. But she didn’t feel well—her stomach started acting up.”

He took her home.

Before I could respond, a bright, overly cheerful voice rang out behind him. “Sir, your lunch is ready. Please enjoy your meal.”

Rocco sucked in a breath. I heard fabric shift, the faint sound of him covering the receiver—but it didn’t matter. The damage was done. Cutlery clinked faintly in the background, the sound far too clear. Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. For a moment, he didn’t speak at all, as if realizing too late that the lie had unraveled.

“It’s alright,” I said quietly, my tone distant even to my own ears. “I can get home by myself.”

I wasn’t sure whether I was trying to comfort him—or convince myself. The words felt hollow as they left my mouth, scraping against the ache in my chest.

I was about to end the call when his voice came again, low and hurried. “Sofia… just go home first. I’ll explain everything later.”

Explain what, exactly? Another excuse carefully stitched together? Another story meant to keep me believing in something that no longer existed?

I hung up without replying and arranged for one of the family’s private drivers to take me back. Night settled over the city soon after—but Rocco never returned.

Sleep wouldn’t come. The distant roar of traffic and the constant thrum of the city outside kept my mind restless. From the window, fireworks erupted across the skyline, brilliant flashes of color tearing through the dark. Someone’s celebration, I guessed bitterly. Someone’s grand gesture. My lips curved into a faint, sour smile.

Unable to drown out the noise, I picked up my tablet and distracted myself by sketching custom bridal gowns for a client—clean lines, careful details, nothing left to chance. As I worked, my finger brushed the messaging app by accident, opening a recent post from Antonella.

The image stole my breath.

Fireworks bloomed across a velvet-black sky, captured at the perfect moment. Beneath it was a caption steeped in emotion:

After being gone for so long, I finally came home. And tonight, the fireworks welcome me.

I stared at the screen longer than I should have, my thoughts spiraling downward. When I tried to close the app, I realized something else—Rocco’s account was still logged in on my tablet.

I didn’t want to see more. Didn’t want proof. Didn’t want to witness whatever intimacy lingered between them. Exhaling sharply, I logged out and set the tablet aside, refusing to let myself fall deeper into it.

By morning, I felt calmer—emptier, but steadier. At the office, my manager handed me my approved resignation letter. Her expression carried pride mixed with regret as I explained my reason for leaving: a bond marriage arranged between families, one that would take me out of the city.

“I’ll miss you, Sofia,” she said softly. “You’ve always been one of my strongest.”

I didn’t trust my voice, so I pulled her into a tight embrace instead, murmuring my thanks for everything she’d taught me over the years.

After the paperwork was finalized, my colleagues insisted on a farewell lunch to mark my engagement. I didn’t argue. I reserved a private table at one of Rocco’s preferred restaurants—a discreet place often used by men in our world for quiet meetings. It was familiar. Too familiar.

Midway through the meal, I excused myself to the restroom—and nearly collided with Antonella in the hallway.

Her smile was effortless, radiant. “Sofia? I didn’t expect to see you here.” She laughed lightly. “This is actually the first place Rocco brought me after my coming-of-age ceremony. We’ve eaten here more times than I can count.”

I returned a polite smile, controlled and distant, and attempted to pass her.

She stepped slightly into my path. “Oh—by the way,” she added, tilting her head. “I noticed something last time. Rocco always rinses the shrimp before peeling it for you, right? And you don’t like spicy food either?”

I stopped.

I did like spicy food. Always had. Yet Rocco had rinsed the shrimp every time, insisting it was healthier, urging me to avoid heat and strong flavors. I’d believed it was care. Consideration.

Standing there, facing Antonella, the truth finally settled into place.

The person he had always been protecting, adjusting for, worrying about—it had never been me.

It had been her.