He shouted after me, ordering me to stop—but I didn’t turn back. My cheek still throbbed, the sting a brutal reminder of where I truly ranked in his world.
Going back to the table wasn’t an option. I wouldn’t poison the night for my colleagues, who had shown me nothing but kindness. Instead, I went to the front desk, settled the bill in full, and sent a short message to the group:
Something urgent came up. Enjoy the food and drinks—this one’s on me.
Then I left.
Each step felt heavy, the weight of the night pressing down on my shoulders, my heart burning with exhaustion—and a quiet, dangerous fury.
By the time I dragged myself back to the penthouse I’d shared with Rocco for seven relentless years, my body felt heavier than the concrete beneath the building. I stopped just inside the doorway, staring at the space that had once been my refuge. Polished marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking a city ruled by men like him. Bespoke furniture commissioned from designers who catered to crime lords and kings alike. It had all once looked like a dream. Now it felt like a carefully staged lie.