He scoffed. “Damn, Bianca. If I could turn back time, I’d leave you in the province. Marry Vivienne from the start. She’s better in every way—classy, smart, knows business, knows when to shut up.”
I turned away, silent.
Then he kicked me.
Right in the knee. I crumpled, falling with a thud I didn’t even gasp at. Cold floor, familiar, merciless.
Tears came unbidden. Not from pain. From hearing him walk away like I didn’t exist.
“Enough drama,” he muttered. “You’re too old for this shit.”
His phone rang.
I could still hear my own ragged breaths as he answered. His tone melted. “Hey, baby,” he said, warm, giddy. “Mmm, missed you already.”
I wiped my face with the edge of my sleeve.
His voice dropped, playful, excited. “Yeah, yeah, I’m packing. Can’t wait to see you in that bikini. This cruise’s gonna be insane. You and me. Open sea.”
I didn’t chase after Marcello.
He walked off, laughing with Vivienne like a schoolboy at prom, whispering into his phone about bikinis and champagne as though I weren’t sprawled on the floor, knees aching, soul half-dissolved.