I sit across from a loan officer with friendly eyes and a sharp mind. I hand over my paperwork, trying to keep my hands still.
“That is quite a significant amount,” she says, reviewing the forms. “May I ask what you need it for?”
“I need to pay off a debt,” I answer, choosing honesty without details. The less people know, the safer I am.
Her eyes lift slightly, though she does not pry. Her gaze drifts down to the bag resting on my lap—a limited-edition Margo, crocodile skin, gold hardware, one of only fifty ever made. I can see the recognition pass through her expression; she knows exactly what she’s looking at.
“You’re aware,” she says quietly, “that what you own could almost cover this… several times over.”
My stomach knots. “I’m aware.”
“Yet you won’t sell it.”
“No,” I say softly, fingers tightening around the handle. “I can’t.”
Because selling it would mean accepting the gift, accepting the tie, accepting the debt. And I refuse. Every luxury he’s given me feels like another link in a chain disguised as silk.
The woman studies me for a long moment, and something unspoken settles between us. Understanding. Feminine intuition. A recognition of a truth I didn’t say aloud.
“All right,” she murmurs, turning back to her computer. “I’ll push this through. I can’t promise approval, but I’ll try.”
Relief washes through me so intensely I have to steady myself. “Thank you. Truly.”
She nods, clicking through requirements, outlining documents I’ll need to gather. It’s overwhelming, but I don’t flinch. Hard paths don’t scare me anymore. Staying scares me more.
When we finish, I rise and shake her hand. She leans slightly closer.
“If I were you,” she says gently, “I would keep every safety net you can. Even the ones you don’t want to consider.”
A warning wrapped as advice. I nod, understanding every word she hasn’t said.
Outside, the cold air hits my skin, and the weight on my chest lifts just a fraction. It’s not freedom—not yet—but it’s movement. It’s momentum. It’s the first step in choosing myself.
My phone buzzes.
Giacomo:Missing you so much. I just saw a gelato cart and thought of how much you love it.
Sweet words. Empty warmth. A man trying to be soft with hands that only know how to hold tightly.
I stare at the message, but nothing inside me softens. If anything, my stomach churns with the hollow ache of someone pretending to be loved in the right way.
I wish I could be the kind of woman who makes this work, who bends instead of breaks, who can swallow her voice and call it devotion. But that has never been me. It never will be.
I crave agency. I crave independence.
I cravea life lived on my terms—not bought, not borrowed, not controlled.
And for the first time, I believe I might actually take it.
I step outside the bank and hail a cab, the wind cutting across my cheeks with a clarity that matches the resolve tightening in my chest. Just as I open the door, my phone buzzes—a message from the one man I have been unsuccessfully avoiding.
Matteo:We need to talk, bella.
My breath stutters, but only for a moment. “No, we don’t,” I whisper under my breath as I slip the phone into my bag. I can’t think about him right now. Not his voice, not his hands, not the way he held me like I was something precious. I need focus.
“Where to, ma’am?” the cab driver asks.
“The Bean, please. Near the main square.”
