I exhaled slowly and sent her a voice note.
“Mom, choose whatever you think is appropriate. I trust you. I don’t want anything extravagant—simple is fine.”
I didn’t realize Leonardo had come in until his voice cut through the room, sharp and disbelieving.
“A ceremony?” he asked. “What ceremony are you talking about?”
My body went rigid. I turned off my phone too quickly, but he was already reaching for it. Before he could take it from my hand, his own phone rang—loud, urgent, slicing through the tension.
Camila’s voice burst through the speaker, trembling and frantic.
“Leonardo, I think someone’s following me. I tried changing routes, but I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”
His expression changed instantly, concern hardening his features.
“Stay where it’s crowded,” he said firmly. “I’m on my way. Don’t move.”
Without another glance in my direction, he grabbed his jacket and rushed out, leaving the door swinging shut behind him.
I stood there, perfectly still, my face calm despite the storm inside me.
Once the apartment was silent again, I called my aunt Lyra. After my parents relocated overseas a decade ago to expand the family business, she had been the one to raise me.
Leonardo and I had grown up side by side—neighbors, friends, something almost-but-not-quite more. When Lyra married and moved abroad herself, I stayed behind. What was supposed to be temporary had quietly stretched into eight years of shared space and undefined commitment.
When Lyra answered, she sounded surprised—and pleased.
“You’re finally getting married? To Leonardo? It’s about time, Anastasia. Eight years is more than enough.”
I paused before correcting her.
“No, Aunt Lyra. It’s an arranged marriage. I haven’t even met the groom.”
The silence on the other end was heavy.
“Are you sure?” she asked carefully. “Leonardo cares about you. Maybe he just needs a push. I could speak to him.”
A short, humorless laugh escaped me.
“If he truly cared, he wouldn’t have needed eight years to decide. I spent my youth waiting while he kept me in limbo. Whatever we had—it wasn’t love. Just comfort. And I refuse to waste another year hoping he’ll suddenly choose me.”
She sighed, clearly struggling to reconcile our long history with my decision. Still, she didn’t argue. She promised to support me, no matter what.
That night, before going to sleep, I set a countdown timer on my phone.