Relief and heartbreak collided in my chest. The truth was undeniable now. I had never mattered.
He hadn’t noticed when I stopped managing his schedule, preparing his suits, or handling his personal affairs. I’d quietly passed those responsibilities to the household staff, and he never questioned it.
“Very well,” I said, standing. My plate remained untouched. Hunger had abandoned me entirely.
My gaze fell on his phone just as a notification lit up the screen. The contact name glowed unmistakably.
The name burned into me. Every ounce of his loyalty, his attention, his devotion—it all belonged to her.
The phone rang. He answered instantly.
“I’ll be there shortly,” he said, his tone obedient, gentle, unwavering.
I smiled bitterly.
At last, I understood the role I had always played in his life—unseen, replaceable, and never truly claimed by the man I once loved.
After breakfast, I made my way to the academy for the graduation ceremony, my emotions tangled between pride and a sharp, gnawing ache.
This day marked the culmination of years spent at the Accademia di Belle Arti di Firenze—a path I had devoted my every thought, every brushstroke, and every late-night hour to. Soon, I would leave for Italy, to carve out a life that belonged entirely to me, away from the influence of the Corell family.
But as I stood there, diploma in hand, surrounded by a throng of students and their families, the familiar sting of solitude crept in.
Around me, families celebrated their protégés, snapping photos, laughter spilling over the square. It was a day designed for shared joy—but I moved through it like a ghost, a lone figure among tightly knit factions.
I shook my head and forced a smile. “This is how it always is, Sami,” I murmured to myself, drawing a steadying breath. “No need to mourn that Zaldy isn’t here.”
It was just another day alone, after all.
Fortune intervened in the form of my mentor, the one who had first given me a shot at recognition beyond the orphanage walls. His eyes lit up when he saw me, pride radiating as he congratulated me for earning the scholarship. He insisted on a celebratory lunch afterward, a gesture that felt like sunlight breaking through a storm.
“Italy will change you, Sami,” he said, voice bright and certain. “I want to see the artist you’re destined to become.”
“Thank you, Professor,” I replied, a genuine smile lifting my features.