"Madonna mia, he's devastating without the suit jacket. From this moment forward, I dream of becoming Mrs. Haskins. Everyone else—hands off."
"The woman posting this picture is already auditioning for that role. Wake up, sister. Your only future is running errands."
Before Celina had arrived to serve as Luca's personal courier, I had been the one performing every task he required—fetching, organizing, anticipating his needs without ever asking for recognition. When she took over my duties, I had simply forgotten to remove myself from the network thread. Now, having read every sycophantic reply, I deleted the conversation from my device and closed the application entirely.
If I had already decided to sever the thread binding me to this life, watching their "preview of domestic bliss" carried less sting than I had anticipated.
My mind drifted to those early days, fresh from university, when I had first entered his orbit.
Luca used to share glimpses of me in the group chat—candid photographs of me preparing his espresso, updating his calendar, arranging the details of his days. Everyone in the organization could see it plainly: he had marked me as his.