I stripped the place bare. Anything that had once carried warmth or personality disappeared. I replaced furniture I’d chosen myself with stark pieces—black, white, sharp lines, no softness. The penthouse returned to what it had been when I first arrived: pristine, cold, and empty. Exactly how it had always belonged to him.
On my last night there, I almost called him.
Maybe I wanted closure. Maybe I wanted him to fight for me. To stop me. To prove I hadn’t imagined everything. I dialed his number more than once, my finger hovering as my heart pounded—but I never pressed the button.
Then his message came through.
If you haven’t acknowledged your mistake and apologized to Antonella, there’s nothing left for us to talk about.
I stared at the screen, a hollow laugh tearing out of me. Seven years. Seven years of loyalty, silence, sacrifice—and he still saw me as the one at fault. He never asked for my side. Never questioned his own actions. Never once wondered what he’d broken.
If that was all I was to him, then there truly was nothing left to say.