That night, Adrian insisted on staying, claiming he couldn't leave me alone in such a state. His words were smooth, his tone carefully measured, but they rang hollow—like lines recited from a poorly rehearsed play. I stood there in the dim hallway of my apartment, studying him. The overhead light caught the edge of his jaw as it shifted, just slightly, to the side—that tell I had seen a thousand times and only now was learning to read for what it was. After a long silence, I finally muttered, "Do whatever suits you."
Without waiting for his response, I turned and walked toward my bedroom. His footsteps followed closely behind, but as he tried to step inside, I shut the door firmly in his face and turned the lock. The bolt slid home with a sound that felt louder than it should have, final in a way that settled into my bones.
"Bianca," his voice came through the door, soft yet insistent. "I'll be right outside. When you're ready to talk, just come and find me, okay?"
There was no anger in his words, no trace of the frustration I expected. That only made it worse. Kindness from someone who was breaking you in half was its own kind of cruelty.
I ignored him and hot tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping onto the backs of my cold hands. The sharp contrast burned, like an unrelenting reminder of the turmoil inside me. Through the bedroom wall, I could hear the muffled sound of him settling onto the sofa, the creak of leather, then nothing. Just the two of us breathing in separate rooms of the same small apartment, a silence thick enough to choke on.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, wrapping my arms tightly around myself as if to hold the pieces of me together. My thumb found the edge of my wedding band—no, not yet. There was no ring. There was nothing binding me to anyone, and still I felt trapped. Adrian, I don't want to love you anymore. The thought whispered through my mind like a quiet plea, both freeing and suffocating at the same time.
The next morning, I woke up groggy and disoriented, the weight of the previous night still pressing down on me like a hand against my chest. Pale light filtered through the curtains, indifferent to everything that had changed. I rubbed my temples, trying to ease the dull ache spreading across my skull, before dragging myself out of bed.
As I stepped into the living room, I caught sight of Adrian hurriedly pulling on his jacket. The same jacket he'd worn the night before—charcoal wool, tailored, the kind of coat a Falcone heir wore to look legitimate. He was already moving toward the door with the restless energy of a man being summoned.
"Bianca, I have something urgent to deal with," he said, his tone brisk. "I'll come back tonight to pick you up. Let's go out for dinner, okay?"
Before I could respond, he was already halfway out the door. By the time I blinked, he was gone, and the apartment held only the fading trace of his cologne and the quiet tick of the hallway clock.
I let out a slow breath, my eyes drifting to the sofa where he had spent the night. The cushion was still creased with the shape of him. Something glinted on the leather—his phone. He must have left in such a rush that he forgot it.
Picking it up, I hesitated. The weight of it felt wrong in my hand, too heavy for plastic and glass, as if it carried something I wasn't meant to see. I thought about calling him later to return it, but before I could decide, the screen lit up with a notification.
Adrian hadn't set a password on his phone and the message popped up clearly on the screen. What I saw made my stomach churn. My hands tightened around the phone as I stared at the message, my heart pounding in my chest—each beat a dull, sick thud that I felt all the way to the base of my throat.
