When I stepped back into the apartment that afternoon, silence swallowed the place like a tomb. The rooms felt empty, untouched, as if Marcello had never even been here. No laughter, no footsteps—just the hollow echo of absence.
“As I expected,” I muttered under my breath, sinking into the worn leather couch with a tired exhale.
He was probably still at the hospital, hovering over Serafina—whether it was genuine concern or just another way she had found to tether him to her side, keeping him away from me, keeping him away from the life we were supposed to share.
I let out a long, weary sigh, too drained to muster the anger that had once roared through me. I reached for the book I’d been reading earlier, hoping to lose myself for a while, but then something on the coffee table caught my attention.
Marcello’s phone.
It lay there carelessly, abandoned in his rush to tend to Serafina. I let out a humorless scoff. He never left the apartment without it. Never. That he had forgotten it now said everything I needed to know: she mattered more than anything else—more than duty, more than loyalty, more than even his own business affairs.
I leaned back, trying to focus on my book, but the persistent vibration of the phone against the table made it impossible to ignore. Frustrated, I reached over, fingers hovering over the screen. Notifications stacked one after another, relentless.
I hadn’t meant to snoop. I only wanted peace. Silence. But then I saw the sender.
It was his family’s private group chat—the very same circle he had traveled to Monaco with.
My chest constricted. Without thinking further, I unlocked the phone. The password was still the same—the anniversary of our engagement.
“We have nothing to hide from each other,” Marcello had said once, grinning lazily when I hesitated to touch his phone. Back then, I had trusted him without question. That trust died the day I discovered the truth. I was done living under the carefully constructed lies of a man who couldn’t even defend the bond we shared.
I scrolled through the messages, each word hitting me harder than the last, until one exchange made my stomach drop:
[That Monaco trip was insane. Can’t believe Marcello almost skipped it because of that clingy girlfriend.]
[LMAO, imagine him using the ‘client meeting’ excuse just to sneak away with us.]
[Marcello, you’re a legend. Should hand her a trophy—‘Most Gullible Girlfriend of the Year.’]
My breath caught. Even Serafina, supposedly injured and at the hospital, was chiming in.
[Nah, call it ‘Most Pathetic Girlfriend.’]
[I think Serafina deserves an award. Truth or Dare was her idea, right?]
[Well, he’s my childhood sweetheart. What’s a little fun between us?]
[Careful, babe. Isabelle might flip out if she finds out.]
[Nah, even if she does, she’ll cry a little, sulk for a few days, and then forgive Marcello. He’s trained her well.]
[Damn… that’s kind of sad, actually.]
Even through the quiet of my apartment, their laughter echoed.
It wasn’t just their mocking words that cut me—it was their absolute certainty that I would remain, that I would forgive him as I always had. That I would let myself be sidelined, relegated to the background while Serafina paraded herself in his life.
And the photos—they were even worse.
Every snapshot confirmed it. Serafina pressed close to Marcello, laughing beside him, resting her head on his shoulder as if the empire he shared with me had already been hers to command. In one particularly cruel image, she had drawn on his sleeping face while his friends snapped pictures, commenting on how ‘cute’ they looked together—like they were the heirs of some perfectly scripted love story. And me? The woman who had been promised loyalty, partnership, a place at his side? I was invisible, a joke they all shared without shame. Marcello said nothing. Not a single word.
A few moments later, my own phone buzzed. A new message.
[Hi, are you still taking freelance photography jobs? I’d like to hire you for an event.]
I blinked. Photography had been my escape, my passion, the skill I honed in college while earning my Fine Arts degree. Over the last few months, I had paused freelance work to focus on finishing school—but curiosity drew me to check. More inquiries were waiting, requests for shoots piling up.
Something stirred in me. A quiet, steely resolve anchored itself in my chest. If Marcello could pour himself into distractions, favors, and everyone else, then I would pour myself into mine. Into work. Into my future. Into building a life that didn’t depend on him.
---
A week passed in a blur. During that time, I barely noticed Marcello. Not because I was avoiding him, but because I was too immersed in my work to even think of him. My days and nights were packed with events, photo sessions, and client meetings. My camera became my shield, my escape from everything I no longer wanted to face. I stopped wondering if he had eaten, slept, or spent the day with Serafina. None of it mattered.
Then one evening, after a particularly long shoot, I returned home to find him waiting.
Marcello sat just outside the apartment door, arms crossed, his expression unreadable yet sharp, as if he had been standing there for hours. The moment I stepped inside, his gaze locked onto mine.
“So, finally done avoiding me?” he asked, voice edged with mockery.
I didn’t even look at him, slipping off my shoes as I walked past. “I’m not avoiding you,” I said simply.
“Then explain why you leave early in the morning and only return when I’m asleep,” he pressed, frustration creeping in.
“Because I’ve been busy,” I answered flatly, moving toward my room.
Before I could reach the door, his hand shot out and gripped my wrist.
“Fine. If you’re still upset because I couldn’t take you to the embassy last week, just say it,” he snapped. “Serafina was in the hospital, her parents were away… What was I supposed to do? Ignore her?”
I turned to face him, my expression calm and distant. “Different priorities, Marcello. Mine was my passport. If I’d waited for you, it would have expired, wouldn’t it?”
His grip tightened. “You always have time to argue, but don’t you see I’ve been exhausted too? Working, taking care of Serafina at the same time.”
Then his tone sharpened further. “The least you could do is welcome me home, cook breakfast, or have something ready before I leave. Is that really so hard?”
I froze. The truth landed like a sledgehammer. He hadn’t asked me to move in because he loved me or wanted a shared life—he wanted a servant, someone to wait while he spent his days with Serafina.
For the first time, I raised my voice. “I told you, I’m busy too!”
Marcello let out a frustrated exhale and released my wrist. “Fine. Forget it. Tomorrow… get ready. We’re going to Serafina’s birthday party.”
I laughed bitterly. “She just got out of the hospital and she’s already throwing a party? That’s… impressive.”
“It’s a celebration for her recovery,” he corrected, as if that justified everything. Then he frowned. “Isabelle, you really despise Serafina, don’t you? You always act like this when it’s about her.”
“I don’t despise her. I just don’t like her. There’s a difference,” I shot back, turning away. “Go alone. I have plans tomorrow.”
I slammed the door to my room behind me, leaving him standing there.
The irony struck hard the next morning. My first client of the day? Serafina herself. She had booked me through her butler, which meant I had unknowingly agreed to photograph her birthday celebration.
And there I was—camera in hand—forced to watch her cling to Marcello, feeding him cake, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, all while laughing sweetly in front of the entire family and their circle of allies. Around them, whispers traveled.
“Isn’t that Marcello’s girlfriend?”
“Wow… look at her. So professional, watching her man be kissed by another and still snapping pictures like nothing’s wrong.”
I tightened my grip on the camera. Let them watch. Let them think I was powerless. I had work. I had control. And one day soon, they would see—nothing about me was disposable.
