I clutched the hallway walls as though the cold marble alone could steady me, my body quaking violently under the crushing weight of anger and despair. Every nerve in my body screamed with the injustice I had suffered, memories of betrayal flashing like knives in my mind.
Lorenzo’s impatience was palpable, carried across the discreet family communicator we used for private messages. “Adriana… why must you be so stubborn?” His voice, usually calm and commanding like a true Don, quivered just enough to betray the irritation he could no longer suppress. “No one is perfect. Why cling so tightly to resentment? Where has your mercy gone?”
He had once seen the depths of my suffering, had stood in my defense when Gabriella and her mother had tormented me, risking the wrath of rival families to protect me. Back then, he had confronted them without hesitation, unafraid of anger, even when it meant putting his own authority at risk. And now… what madness had led him to oppose me, to shield the very ones who had haunted me for years, who had broken my body and spirit alike?
I let the flood of memories wash over me, each word weighed with all the scars I carried. “Unless she dies before my very eyes,” I said, my tone low and lethal, “I will never forgive her!” Each syllable sliced through the air, a blade honed from a decade of torment.
Lorenzo’s brow furrowed, pulse quickening, his temper flaring in that familiar way I had seen when he had raged on my behalf in the past. But now, his ire was directed squarely at me.
“Adriana!” he called, voice deep and commanding, yet edged with frustration, echoing along the polished corridor. “How have you grown so bitter in just two short years? If you cannot find forgiveness for her, then at least offer a word of civility, a formal apology! Do you have any idea how it wounds me to think others might call my partner spiteful or vindictive?”
I clenched my jaw, the pulse in my temples throbbing with fury and disbelief.
“Your mother’s choices brought ruin upon her own house,” Lorenzo continued, his voice firm now, tinged with the sharp logic of a Don weighing loyalty and legacy. “Had she considered your youth, your father would never have been forced to remarry. You cannot place all blame upon Gabriella and her daughter. Her mother erred, yes—but she did not deserve annihilation. And yet, if you, like your mother, persist in dwelling stubbornly in your misery, is it any wonder nightmares still haunt you?”
The word nightmares seemed to hiss from his lips, heavy with disdain, impatience, and weariness. The man who had once promised to shield me from every darkness, who had soothed my trembling form when danger stalked the night, now seemed tired of my pain. Every injury, every scar I bore, was now a weapon in his hands—used to wound me further. The same hands that had once protected me now seemed to push me toward the abyss, all justified for Gabriella’s sake.
My legs gave way beneath me, and I staggered backward, trembling so violently that the walls no longer offered support. Lorenzo caught me just in time, but the moment he saw my swollen, bruised knee, his concern replaced frustration. He dropped to one knee, inspecting the injury with the precision of a man trained to anticipate pain and preserve life.
“How did you manage to wound yourself so badly?” he demanded, worry threading his authoritative tone.
“Forget it,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “If you refuse to apologize, I will do it for you. But mark my words—never again speak to me with such disrespect.” I wrenched my hand free, strength flaring despite the pain, and gestured sharply toward the door, my face pale, rigid, and carved from stone.
“Leave! All of you, leave this house at once!” I commanded, the weight of authority in my voice undeniable.
Lorenzo reached for me instinctively, as though to soothe me with the memory of the embrace that had once calmed my soul. But Gabriella, tears gliding down her carefully painted face, bowed low in calculated deference.
“Adriana… I will depart immediately,” she said, her voice trembling with the practiced cadence of contrition. “Please… do not torment yourself further over me.”
As she turned, her movement was clumsy, too swift, careless. She collided with the doorframe, losing balance entirely. Lorenzo reacted instantly, instincts honed from years of commanding and protecting, lunging to catch her. They tumbled together into the corridor. Despite his protective hold, her temple struck the edge of the frame, crimson blooming across her skin almost at once.
“Does it hurt?” he demanded urgently, cradling her with an intensity born of both authority and affection. “We must get her to the healer immediately!”
Finally, the hallway fell silent. My heart, already battered from ten years of devotion and trust, sank deeper into despair. After a decade of entwined lives, of shared ambitions and secrets, we had reached a place of estrangement.
I drew forth a rare travel permit, securing passage for the day of the ceremony. Seven days remained—just enough to sever the lingering threads of the past.
Lorenzo had been right: one must look forward, or risk being consumed by what came before. From this day, I vowed to cut all ties—both to the joy and to the agony that had shaped my life—leaving nothing but the cold, calculated clarity of the path ahead.
