Don, I Won't Wait for You Anymore

Back home, I opened the cabinet, grabbed the bottle of red wine I'd set aside for Luca, and downed it in one go.

I was trying to drink myself numb—to forget that photo that cut me open.

To forget that he'd stood me up again on my birthday.

But a few moments later, a sharp pain tore through my stomach. My bones felt like they were on fire.

I opened a drawer, took a painkiller, and caught my reflection in the glass beside me. Pale. Hollow.

After the terminal leukemia diagnosis, I never told Luca. I just went to the hospital in secret, on my own.

Because I didn't want to add one more burden to his already full plate.

After several rounds of treatment, the doctor told me it wasn't working. He suggested I go to a better hospital.

I thought about it. Then I gave up.

Because I knew there was no point.

I didn't want to spend my last days lying in a hospital bed, counting down the end.

All I wanted was to hold on to whatever time we had left.

When we first got married, Luca used to look at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Even when we got ambushed on a job, he'd throw himself in front of me without a second thought.

A bullet tore through his shoulder, blood soaking straight through his shirt—and he still gritted his teeth, pulled me tight, and said:

"Don't be scared. I'm here. Nobody touches my Donna."

Back then, I was everything to him. He would've died for me.

Now? He'd left me sitting alone for five hours for another woman.

The thought carved something raw and bitter open in my chest. I turned, walked upstairs, and threw a few changes of clothes into a suitcase.

Then I pulled off my wedding ring and tossed it onto the table without a second glance.

I bought a one-way ticket to the Maldives for the next morning.

That was where he'd promised to take me for our honeymoon.

Every time I brought it up, he'd say the family was too busy—once business was stable, he'd take me there to see the ocean.

I waited for his "next time," over and over. But that moment never came.

Today, I finally understood—there was no next time.

Before I left this world, I wanted to keep those promises myself. Alone.

When I got into the taxi headed for the airport, my phone screen lit up.

Another video popped into my inbox.

The background was a bar. Luca's men were all egging him on.

"Don, you ditched Donna at the estate on her birthday for Miss Reed tonight. She's not gonna blow up at you, is she?"

When people used to poke fun at me, Luca would get furious.

But tonight, he just shut his eyes and said coldly:

"Elena's always been reasonable. She knows I've got business to take care of first."

"Right now, she's probably already drawn my bath, waiting for me in the bedroom."

Just as he said that, the taxi merged onto the highway.

I watched the station signs blur past the window, then pressed the screen dark.

I closed my eyes and slowly drifted off.

By the time Luca called, I was already sitting in the departure lounge.

The ringtone cut through the empty hall, harsh and out of place.

"Elena."

A short silence—then I heard his voice, barely restrained fury underneath.

"You're not at the estate? Where the hell are you? Why is the trash full of dumped food?"

I glanced at the clock on the wall. 3 a.m.

He'd spent nine hours with Anna before it finally occurred to him to come home and check on his "most understanding wife."

Before, no matter how long I waited, I'd always put his mood first.

Help him change, draw his bath, wait until he was asleep.

Then cry quietly beside his pillow, terrified of disturbing his work the next day.

But now—now that I'd decided to leave—there was a strange kind of relief in my chest.

I picked up the call and said, cold and flat:

"Yeah. I'm not at the estate. I'm at the airport."

"The airport? What the hell are you doing at the airport at 3 in the morning?"

He stopped short, like something uneasy had just dawned on him.

"Why are you suddenly throwing a fit? Where are you going? We said we'd wait until things calmed down—"

Irritation bled through every word.

That word—"fit"—dragged me back a month.

That day, my nose wouldn't stop bleeding. I collapsed on the stairs with no warning at all.

I fought back the fear, grabbed his arm, and asked if he could spare half a day to take me to the hospital.

He looked at me, and something reluctant flickered in his eyes.

"Elena, the port accounts aren't finished. I have to go verify the shipment."

"Call the private doctor yourself. We'll deal with it once things slow down."

Looking at how exhausted he was, I swallowed the taste of blood in my mouth and didn't push.

But that same afternoon, I saw a post Anna put up.

"Cut my finger on a steak knife—barely a scratch—and someone sent a helicopter to take me to the hospital. So dramatic."

In the photo, a Band-Aid was wrapped around her finger. And at the edge of the frame, a large hand was holding hers tight—knuckles blurred out with a mosaic.

I didn't think anything of it at the time.

Until today. Until it hit me—the "someone" was Luca. The mosaic was covering that scar on his hand.

He wasn't too busy for the hospital.

He was willing to drop important meetings for a scratch on Anna's finger that you could barely even see.

He just didn't want to take me.

And meanwhile, I was dragging my dying body around, waiting for him. Endlessly.

I looked out the window. The runway lights blinked in the dark.

My voice was barely above a whisper.

"I'm going to the Maldives. To see the ocean. I don't have any time left to wait."

I wanted to go somewhere with no gunfire. No scheming. No Anna.

A long silence. Then Luca sighed—like he was soothing a sulking child.

"You're mad I broke my promise tonight, aren't you? Elena, I told you—I think of her as a sister."

"Anna's car broke down on the road, and it just happened to be pouring. I had to go get her."

"I thought as my Donna, you'd be big enough to understand that."

He paused, then added:

"Of course I didn't forget your birthday. I even bought you a jade necklace."

"Elena, stop this. Tell me which airport. Just wait for me—I'll come get you—"

"Luca. Don't."

I cut him off.

I didn't have the strength to ask why he'd miss his own wife's birthday for a "friend."

I just looked at the night sky outside the airport and said, calm and steady:

"Don't come. I don't have time to wait for you anymore."

Then I hung up and blocked his number.