"I don't want a man who wouldn't speak to me."
I met her eyes, and for one moment, I let her see the steel beneath my surface—the steel that three years of silence and neglect had forged.
"I hope you enjoy my leftovers."
I stood and walked toward the payment counter, my heels clicking against the marble with a finality that felt like freedom.
"Miss Mancini!"
She shot up and grabbed my right hand from behind.
My right hand—the one that had been crushed in the accident she had caused. The one that would never hold a scalpel again.
Her grip sent pain lancing through me so sharp I nearly lost my footing. White spots danced across my vision.
I wrenched free.
Thud.
She stumbled back into the railing, her performance of fragility suddenly very real.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a familiar figure.
Nico.
He emerged from the shadows of the corridor like a specter—tall, dark-suited, his face carved from the same cold marble as the floors beneath our feet. He rushed over and steadied Massima, his hands gentle on her arms in a way they had never been gentle with me.
"Nico, it's fine, really." Her voice was soft as velvet. "I'm not that fragile—I just lost my balance."