Valentina POV:
“I forgive her,” Isabella sobbed from the safety of Marco’s arms, her voice carrying across the stunned silence of the room. “She’s obviously not well. Please, don’t be angry with her, Mark.”
The whispers started again, little currents of judgment that washed over me. “Crazy.” “Jealous.” “Did you see her eyes?”
Marco looked at me, his face a mask of cold fury. He was protecting Isabella, shielding her with his body, positioning me as the attacker. As the threat.
I thought of all the times he’d sworn to protect me. “You’re my family, Vally. I’d burn the world down for you.” Another lie to add to the mountain.
“Mark, please, just tell everyone,” Isabella pleaded, pressing a hand to her forehead as if staving off a faint. “Tell them the truth so this can be over.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes meeting mine. In that moment, I saw it all: the calculation, the weighing of options, the cold, hard reality that I was a liability he needed to discard.
He took a deep breath, his voice ringing with false sincerity. “There has been a misunderstanding,” he announced to the room. “Valentina was a valued analyst on my team. A brilliant one. But it seems she developed… an unfortunate attachment. There was never anything between us. Not really.”
He was erasing me. With a few simple words, he was wiping out three years of my life, reducing our shared history to a workplace crush.
“My wife, Isabella,” he continued, pressing a kiss to her temple, “and I were legally and formally married two months ago. We will be hosting a celebration next month to formalize our union within the Lombardi family. You will all be invited.”
It was done. He had publicly disowned me, discredited me, and sealed my fate. I was no longer the brilliant mind behind his success. I was the delusional girl who couldn’t take a hint. The whole room looked at me with a mixture of pity and contempt. My name was mud.
Marco’s eyes found mine again, and this time, there was a warning in them. He walked toward me, leaving Isabella in the care of another soldier, and leaned in close, his voice a low, menacing growl.
“You will go home,” he commanded. “And tomorrow, you will issue a public apology to Isabella and to this family for your behavior. Is that clear?”
He walked away without waiting for an answer, returning to his weeping, victorious bride. They left the hall, a protective circle of his men surrounding them, leaving me alone in the center of the room, the target of a hundred judgmental stares.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Home. He wanted me to go home.
Our home.
The drive back to the penthouse we shared was a blur. I felt hollowed out, a fragile shell. The place that had been my sanctuary now felt like a foreign country.
I let myself in with my key. The lights were on. And Marco was there, sitting on the sofa, nursing a glass of whiskey. He looked up at me, his expression not angry, but weary, as if I were a problem he was tired of solving.
“Vally, we need to talk,” he said calmly.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said, my voice flat.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I know you’re upset. I handled that badly. I should have told you.”
“Told me what? That you were using me? That our entire life was a lie?”
“It wasn’t a lie,” he insisted, standing up and walking toward me. “What we have is real. Isabella… she’s a strategic alliance. Her family has connections, power. It’s temporary. It’s for the good of the family—our family.”
I stared at him, my mind struggling to comprehend the depth of his delusion.
“Just be patient, Vally. Trust me. Like you always have.”
He reached for me, but I flinched away. I looked at his face, the face I had loved, the face I had trusted, and for the first time, I saw a complete stranger.
“I don’t know who you are,” I whispered.
He sighed again, the sound full of patronizing frustration. “Don’t be difficult. This is bigger than your feelings right now.”
His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He glanced at the screen. Isabella’s name glowed back at us.
“I have to take this,” he said, his voice softening as he answered. “Bella? Are you okay? No, of course I’m not mad at you. You did nothing wrong. Just rest. I’ll be there soon.”
He was comforting her. After everything, he was worried about *her* feelings. The betrayal was so complete, so absolute, that it ceased to be a sharp pain and became a dull, crushing weight.
