It was a message from my supervisor at Ledger Cell Three.
Something urgent had come up with the accounts, and she needed me to return immediately.
I read the message and quietly put my phone away.
Mira noticed.
His expression darkened almost at once.
"What is it?"
"Work," I said. "There's an urgent matter with the books. I need to go back."
His brows furrowed.
"Can't you put your work aside for me, just this once?"
The disappointment came so suddenly that it almost made me laugh.
For him?
How many times had I needed him, only for him to brush me off with the same excuse?
Work.
Too busy.
Too tired.
Too important.
I had once gone out of my way to bring him meals at the social club, afraid his stomach would act up if he skipped dinner again. But when one of his crewmates complimented my outfit and casually asked for my contact information, Mira turned cold on the spot.
That night, he accused me of using concern as an excuse to monitor him.
He said I made him feel suffocated.
He said I didn't trust him.
He said I should stop interrupting his work.
From then on, I learned not to disturb him.
But now, when it was my work on the line, he expected me to abandon everything for a celebration dinner that had nothing to do with me.
How ridiculous.
I looked at him and shook my head.
"I really have to go."
Mira began pacing in place, irritation written all over his face.
"Bianca, you're the one who keeps saying you don't trust me and Adriana," he said, his tone growing sharper. "That's why I brought you here today. I wanted you to see for yourself that there's nothing between us."
He stopped and looked at me, as if I were the one being unreasonable.
"But now that you want to leave, don't turn around and blame me later. Don't let jealousy take over again."
Jealousy.
That word had followed me for so long that it had almost lost its meaning.
In their eyes, every question I asked was jealousy.
Every wound I exposed was jealousy.
Every boundary I tried to defend was jealousy.
But the truth was, I no longer had the energy to be jealous.
Jealousy required hope.
It required the belief that the person in front of you still belonged to you in some way.
And I had already stopped believing that.
So I only nodded.
"Fine."
My calmness seemed to unsettle him.
But I didn't stay to explain.
After finalizing the details of my transfer to the Marseille operation, my supervisor confirmed the departure date.
Next Sunday.
Only a few days left.
She looked at me for a long moment, concern softening her voice.
"Bianca, you've lost a lot of weight recently. Are you still in a cold war with your husband?"
I lowered my eyes and didn't answer.
A cold war?
Maybe.
Or maybe I was simply waiting.
Waiting for the final page of this marriage to turn.
Waiting for the verdict that had already been written long ago.
My wedding band pressed into my palm where I'd turned it inward without thinking, the stone biting into the skin.
Just then, a friend request appeared on my phone.
The profile picture looked familiar.
It was the waitress from the restaurant.
I stared at it for a few seconds, then accepted.
Almost immediately, she sent me a video.
I clicked on it.
The private room appeared on the screen.
Laughter filled the background. The low, loose laughter of men who thought no one outside that room would ever matter.
Adriana was sitting beside Mira, holding a glass of wine in her hand. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and her smile was soft and sweet. One finger rested lightly on the tiny gold crucifix at her throat, as though every ounce of her innocence lived in that single gesture.
Then, under the loud cheering of Mira's so-called brothers, she lifted the glass to his lips.
"Drink it," someone shouted. "Come on, Mira, don't disappoint Adriana!"
The room erupted in teasing laughter.
Mira did not refuse.
He lowered his head and drank from the glass in Adriana's hand.
Their faces were close.
Too close.
The people around them whistled and jeered, as if they were watching a couple flirt openly. Made men, associates, soldiers on the Family payroll, all of them raising their glasses to something they had already decided was real.
No one thought it was inappropriate.
No one remembered that Mira had a wife.
No one remembered that I had just been standing beside him not long ago.
The video ended.
For a while, I simply stared at the black screen.
Then another message came from the waitress.
[You are the most disgusting mistress. Someone like you doesn't deserve to be seen in the light.]
I read the sentence once.
Then again.
A strange numbness spread through me.
So that was how it looked from the outside.
Adriana sat beside my husband, fed him wine in front of everyone, accepted their cheers, enjoyed their teasing, and somehow I was the mistress.
I was the one who could not be seen.
I was the shameful one.
I was the woman who had stolen someone else's place.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
For a moment, anger burned through the numbness, sharp and bright.
Not because the waitress had insulted me.
But because I finally understood how thoroughly Mira and his crew had rewritten the story.
In their version, Adriana was the lost love.
Mira was the devoted man who had never truly let go.
And I was nothing more than an obstacle.
A mistake.
A woman who had occupied a position that should have belonged to someone else.
I looked at the video again.
At Adriana's smile.
At Mira's lowered head.
At the people around them laughing as if they were blessing something beautiful.
Then I slowly closed the chat.
There was no need to explain myself to strangers.
No need to argue with people who had already chosen what they wanted to believe.
The truth did not need to shout.
It only needed to wait.
And soon, I would be gone.
