There was a time I’d been convinced this place would be my forever. That I’d grow old here, standing beside him, believing I was loved—protected—chosen. That certainty tasted bitter now, like a fantasy I’d willingly swallowed despite knowing better. Everywhere I looked, memories waited to ambush me. The couch where we’d argued in whispers during syndicate calls. The kitchen island where he’d leaned against me after long nights of bloodstained negotiations. Moments that should have been comforting instead sliced straight through me.
The truth had always been there, buried beneath denial: this penthouse was never truly mine. It had been built for someone else—designed around an image Rocco carried in his head, not the woman standing in it now. I had spent years trying to fit into a life that was never meant to hold me. Staying any longer would only be another form of punishment I didn’t deserve.
So I chose to leave.