ABELLA
The moment Angelo’s gone, I rifle through my overnight bag and pull out my medical records. I had planned to tell him tonight, no matter what, but because I’m not brave enough to face his rejection, I’ll be leaving them for him to read on his own.
It seems like the best way—if there is such a thing when it comes to ripping your heart out.
I set them on his pillow and grab my planner, flipping to a blank note page. I press the pen against the paper and force myself to write on autopilot because there’s no other way I’ll get through it. I don’t have much time, and I definitely don’t have time to say all the things I want.
So, I say what needs to be said most.
Angelo,
There was never anyone else for me.
It has always been you.
Ti amerò per sempre
Abella
After I finish the note,I rip it from the journal and leave it on his pillow, along with the only copy of my medical records. Then I promptly run to the bathroom and vomit up the contents of my stomach.
I want nothing more than to curl up and cry, but I can’t. So after I clean myself up, I open the group chat and text them one word.
Valkyrie.
I have enough time to dress in the clothes I brought for tomorrow, and they’re the only thing I’ll be leaving with.
I glance at the bed where I just spent my last night with Angelo, and agony pierces through me. The thought of leaving him again is too painful to bear. So I focus on each step. The first thing I need to do is breathe. The second is answering my phone when I see the virtual number.
“Hello?” I croak.
There’s a pause on the other line before Mariella speaks. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes.” I force the word out, even as every fiber of my being resists the idea.
Mariella knows the rules. It’s what we all agreed on. No questions asked. She can’t convince me to stay, and I know as much as it hurts her, she will keep her word.
“We’ll need a few minutes to lose our guards,” she tells me. “Go to Fox Run. We’ll meet you there.”
“Okay.”
I’m not sure how I’m even going to lose my guards, but one thing at a time. Fortunately for me, after her initial uncertainty, Mariella seems to have stepped into her role as the strategist.
“Are you in the primary suite at the penthouse?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Go to the walk-in closet.”
I follow her instructions, glancing around the space. There are a few of Angelo’s suits hanging from the rack, but not much else.
“Okay, I’m here.”
“Do you see the mirror on the back wall?”
“Yes.” I walk toward it.
“Press on the right side with your palm.”
