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.”
