“Emiliano,” he says, finally looking at me again. “He’ll be here by the weekend.”
The floor tilts beneath me. “So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I let out a small, humorless laugh. “You really are a coward.”
His entire body goes still, but he doesn’t argue. He just finishes his drink and sets the glass down on the desk with deliberate precision, as if that small act can hold everything else together.
“Please,” I whisper. “Don’t do this.”
He turns his back. “Go, Mara.”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
He says nothing.
“I mean it,” I say, stepping closer, voice shaking. “You think pushing me away protects me, but all it does is break us. Whatever this was…” My breath hitches. “You can’t just erase it.”
He finally turns to face me. His expression is unreadable, eyes dark and steady.
“Watch me.”
That hurts more than anything else he’s ever said. Something inside me snaps.
“You don’t get to do that,” I say, my voice rising. “You don’t get to pull me in, make me believe there was something real, and then decide you’re done.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even flinch.
“Say something,” I plead. “Anything. Tell me you didn’t feel it. Tell me I imagined everything.”
Silence.
My throat burns. “God, you really don’t feel anything, do you?”
Still nothing. I can’t stand it. I move toward the door, my vision blurring. My hand finds the handle, but I pause, looking back one last time.
This is a damn humiliation ritual. When will I get it through my skull?
He’s still there, standing by the window, his back to me, a shadow against the glass. He doesn’t try to stop me.
“I will never forgive you for this,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move.
The door slams behind me, echoing through the hall like a shot. By the time I reach the corridor, the tears are blinding. I run, half-sobbing, half-choking on the sound. My heels click against the marble—sharp, frantic, breaking the quiet that’s settled over the Castello.
When I finally reach my room, I don’t bother with the lights. I fall against the door, sliding down until I hit the floor. My chest heaves, every breath painful and shallow. The sob that escapes isn’t graceful. It’s raw, ugly, the kind that tears something open inside you.
Duchess lifts her head from the bed, blinking at me like I’m interrupting her sleep. I laugh weakly, wiping at my face.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper. “I know. I’m an idiot.”
She curls back up, tail flicking once before she settles. I envy her for it. The peace, the indifference. My throat aches. My heart feels heavy enough to bruise.
I thought maybe we were getting somewhere. That his silence meant uncertainty, not indifference. That when he looked at me, it was more than lust. That it was something real. But I was wrong.
He said it was easier to push me away. And maybe, for him, it is. For me, it feels like dying slowly.
