Everyone Had a Key but Me

My phone rang as I stepped out of the elevator.

“Elena.” Luca's voice was low, familiar. “Don't let Isabella get to you. She opens her mouth before she thinks.”

I stopped beside the glass doors of his building.

“How long has she been living here?”

A pause.

“Her apartment's being renovated. It's only for a few days.”

“There are hotels.”

“I have three empty guest rooms. Why would I put her in a hotel?” Irritation sharpened his voice. Then he exhaled. “Look, sweetheart. I know how that sounded. Come back upstairs. Let's have dinner.”

For three years, an empty room had never been an option for me.

“Your rule was that your home was private,” I said. “Apparently, you meant private from me.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Then you should have been clearer.”

“Elena, it's a photograph and a spare key. You're making this into something it isn't.”

Behind him, I heard Isabella say something I couldn't make out.

Luca's voice cooled. “I'm not doing this over the phone. Come upstairs when you're ready to talk.”

The line went dead.

For a moment, I looked at my reflection in the dark screen. My eyes were bright, but my face was steady.

“Elena?”

Marco Romano came through the lobby carrying two bottles of wine. Isabella's older brother had known Luca since they were boys. Now he handled much of the Moretti family's legitimate business.

“Where are you going? Dinner's almost ready.”

“Something came up.”

“All right. Here.” He shifted the bottles and held out a key. “Let yourself in when you get back.”

I stared at it.

His friends had keys. Isabella had a key.

I was the only one who had to call from downstairs and wait to be collected.

Luca called it privacy. Boundaries. Respect.

It was strange how those principles only ever applied to me.

“Thanks,” I said. “I won't need it.”

I left before Marco could ask anything else.

The wind outside stung my eyes. By the time I got into a cab, my phone had vibrated again.

A video from Isabella.

Dinner was spread across Luca's coffee table: seafood, pasta, open bottles of wine. His friends lounged on the rug and the sofas. Luca sat in the middle of them, his tie loosened, looking more relaxed than he ever did at a restaurant with me.

Isabella was tucked against his side.

She ate a shrimp he'd just peeled, then lifted her wineglass to his mouth.

Someone laughed off camera.

“Come on, Luca. You and Bella look married already. Might as well make it official.”

Luca's smile vanished. He straightened, his mouth opening—

The video ended.

I watched the blank screen for a second, then closed the message.

Whatever he'd said after that, Isabella had made sure I wouldn't hear it.

When we reached my building, the driver offered me a tissue.

“Rough night?”

I hadn't realized I'd been crying.

“A little.”

“Take your time.”

I thanked him, wiped my face, and stepped out.

Before I went upstairs, I sent Luca one message.

We're done, Luca. I'm ending this relationship.

Then I opened an email I'd been avoiding for two weeks.

Dr. Helen Reed, my former research supervisor, had offered me a place on her consumer-behavior research team in Copenhagen. I'd nearly turned it down.

I typed my reply without deleting a single word.

If the position is still available, I'd like to accept. I can leave immediately.

Her response came minutes later.

It's yours, Elena. I'll ask our coordinator to arrange your flight and accommodation.

For the first time that evening, I could breathe properly.