He turns to me next, and to my disgust, his face softens—approval blooming like rot.
“I see you’ve come to your senses.”
My jaw aches from the effort it takes to keep smiling. To stay still. To not show the fury simmering beneath my skin.
They think this is about duty and about the Family.
They have no idea that upstairs, in my penthouse, lies the woman who has turned every plan I had inside out… the woman whose breath still warms my sheets, whose trust I’ve already broken in ways they’ll never imagine.
They have no idea that the word grandchild does not make me think of Fran at all.
It makes me think of Elizabeth. Of the pill she swallowed. Of the choice I stole. Of the future I’ve already imagined for her, one she doesn’t even know she’s standing on the edge of.
A future that can’t—mustn’t—exist.
Because as Federico drones on about tradition, alliances, legacy, every syllable digs the truth deeper into my bones.
I have to end things with Elizabeth. Not because I want to. But because I’m trapped in a web of expectations spun long before she ever touched my life. A web woven by blood, power, and promises I never should’ve made.
She’s upstairs in my penthouse, sleeping in my bed, wearing my shirt, trusting me like I’m something clean and safe.
And I’m standing here, surrounded by vipers, pretending I’m still theirs.
The guilt claws at my ribs, brutal and relentless.
Because I know exactly what I have to do.
I have to break the girl who looks at me like I’m worth saving. Push her away before she realizes the monster she’s curled her soft heart around. Cut her loose before she learns the truth about the pills, the lies, the future I almost dared to want with her.
I have to let her go—for her sake, not mine.
But as Fran’s mother smirks, and Federico beams because I’ve come “to my senses,” the bitter truth twists inside me.
Ending things with Elizabeth might be the one decision I’m not strong enough to make.
But I say to Federico, “Indeed.”
Federico claps me on the shoulder. “Good. Now let’s have a drink to celebrate.”
A server appears instantly, as if the universe is mocking me with convenience. Fran accepts a flute, takes a delicate sip before setting it aside.
I drain mine in one swallow.
The champagne burns all the way down, but it doesn’t touch the fire in my chest. It doesn’t dampen the image in my head of Miss Miller curled in bed.
God help me.
Federico gestures toward the dance floor. “Take my daughter out for a spin.”
I do what’s expected.
We dance.
We smile.
We look like the perfect couple under chandeliers worth more than some men’s lives. People watch us—investors, politicians, families who want what we represent. Legacy. Power. The future.
But inside, I’m hollow.
