Chapter 2

I returned to the villa Vincent and I had shared for nearly five years.

As soon as I entered our master bedroom, the first thing that hit me was the smell—something floral and sweet, nothing like the crisp citrus I always wore.

Then my eyes fell on the bed.

Lacy black underwear—draped across the duvet like it belonged there. Not my size. Definitely not mine. I didn't need a label to tell me who it belonged to. Molly.

My toiletries were gone from the vanity. My robes, my slippers, my books—all vanished, as if I'd never lived here at all.

This was my home with Vincent. And yet, in the span of seven days, it had become Molly's room.

I turned and walked down the hall to the guest bedroom. There, piled in neat boxes and hung in the closet, was everything that used to be mine.

A bitter smile tugged at my lips.

I was still standing in the middle of the guest room when I heard the front door click open.

Vincent's voice, low and easy, followed by Molly's bright laugh. They stepped into the living room, and Vincent froze the moment he saw me.

"Oh, Chiara! You're back." Molly's hand flew to her chest, all wide-eyed innocence. "I hope you don't mind—I've been so emotional lately, you know, with the pregnancy and everything. I had a huge fight with my family, and Vincent was kind enough to let me stay here for a few days. The master bedroom has that bigger mattress, and my back's been killing me, so he insisted I take it. I hope that's alright?"

She looked at me with that perfectly apologetic tilt of her head.

I waited for Vincent to say something. But he just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching me quietly.

I gave a small shrug. "I see. That's fine."

Vincent’s brow furrowed, like he'd been bracing for a storm and couldn't quite believe the sky stayed clear.

Before dinner, Molly pressed a delicate hand to her stomach and sighed. "Vincent, I'm really not feeling up to heavy food. Do you think you could make that lemon pasta you used to make for me back in the day? I've been craving it all week."

And Vincent, who'd been too busy with mafia business to step foot in the kitchen for the last three years, rolled up his sleeves without a second thought and started chopping garlic.

I watched him move around the stove, the same way he had when we were first dating, when he'd cook for me just to see me smile. Now he was doing it for Molly, while I sat at the table like a guest.

At dinner, he sat beside Molly, while I was across from him. He filled her plate with the pasta and asked if it was salted enough. She giggled and launched into a string of childhood memories.

"I can't believe you still remember I hate mushrooms," she said, poking at his arm.

"Hard to forget," he teased back, "when you used to pick them out of every single dish and leave them on my plate."

She laughed, bright and easy. "We have known each other for years."

While they were deep in conversation, lost in their own world, I felt like a third wheel.

I sat across from them, my fork moving food from plate to mouth without tasting a thing.

I pulled out my phone under the table and typed a message to my father.

"I've made my decision. I'll be home in three days. I'll accept the match you arranged."

A moment later, Molly looked up with a theatrical start. "Oh, Chiara! I'm so sorry—we got carried away talking about old times. I completely forgot you were sitting there. You must be so bored."

Vincent's face flushed a shade of red I rarely saw. He opened his mouth, but I cut him off with a flat smile.

"Don't worry about it. I'm done anyway."

I set down my napkin, rose from my chair, and walked upstairs without looking back.

On the second-floor terrace, I leaned against the railing and let the night air wash over me.

The sound of footsteps drew closer—and then Molly was beside me, arms crossed, that sugary smile still fixed on her face.

"Five years, Chiara," she said, almost lazily. "That's what you had with him. Five years. And look at where you are now."

She tilted her head, her voice dropping to a murmur. "You think that means something? Compared to what he and I share? We've been in each other's lives since we were kids. You can't compete with that, and you know it."

She took a step closer.

"Do yourself a favour. Leave while you still have some dignity left. Because if you stay, I promise you—he'll only break your heart worse than he already has."