The first thing on the screen was a photo Francesca had just shared. Lorenzo was on one knee in her new villa, sleeves rolled to his elbows, broad shoulders tense as he worked on exposed wiring near the wall. Sweat darkened the fabric of his shirt, the angle deliberate, intimate. It wasn’t just a candid moment—it was a statement.
My fingers curled around the phone.
Beneath the photo, her caption glowed brightly on the screen.
Does every boss personally handle repairs at midnight? I might just dedicate my entire future to this company. Maybe I should make it official and sign on for life.
The replies came flooding in almost instantly—men and women who knew exactly who Lorenzo was, what he ruled, and what his attention meant.
Never seen the boss like this. Guess the rumors about him being cold were nonsense.
That’s not a CEO—that’s a man auditioning for husband of the year.
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.
As I began gathering my things, my gaze landed on the thick leather-bound album resting on the coffee table. Lorenzo’s idea. His tradition. Every page held moments from our years together—successful deals, quiet meals after bloody negotiations, rare laughter stolen between crises.