Careful, Francesca. People might start thinking you’re the one walking beside him at the next syndicate banquet.
The phone vibrated in my grip as more messages poured in. My vision blurred, not from tears, but from the pressure of holding myself together.
She was skilled—careful, calculated, flawless. Nothing blatant. Nothing that could be openly accused. Just enough to mark territory in full view of everyone who mattered.
Once, Lorenzo had done the same for me. Photos from overseas meetings. Quiet dinners between negotiations. Late-night strategy sessions where his hand rested on the back of my chair, just visible enough for anyone paying attention. Back then, it felt solid. Permanent.
Now, I was history.
I exited the chat and muted it without a second glance. The ache in my chest remained, but my resolve didn’t waver. Leaving still felt like the right choice—even if it cut.
I stepped into the estate house that had been my world for nearly a decade. Eight years of shared corridors, shared routines, shared silences that pretended to be comfort. Every room carried traces of a life I’d believed was leading somewhere.
Tonight, I stopped pretending.