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.
