When Francesca’s birthday arrived, Lorenzo turned it into an event. He commissioned a massive, multi-layered cake infused with moonflower extract—an expensive, rare ingredient imported through his underground channels. He knew I was severely allergic to moonflower. I’d nearly ended up in the hospital years ago because of it. He knew. He just didn’t care enough to remember.
During the celebration, they stood close, feeding each other bites of frosting, smearing cream on fingertips and cheeks, laughing like nothing else in the world existed. Music thumped. Glasses clinked. Men with guns at their waists pretended not to notice. I stood a few steps away, invisible, watching the man who once promised me forever forget I was even in the room.
The scent reached me quickly. My chest seized as if a fist had closed around my lungs. Each breath became harder than the last. Panic surged, hot and uncontrollable, my vision blurring at the edges. I tried to steady myself against the table, but the floor tilted beneath my feet.
The last thing I remembered was falling—music still playing, laughter still ringing—while no one noticed.