Our Sixth Anniversary Was My Goodbye

Damian didn’t come home the next day.

I wasn’t surprised.

That morning, my boss, Diana, arrived at the hospital with a bouquet of white tulips and set her tablet in front of me. “Paris is still waiting for an answer. The restoration of that century-old hotel on the Left Bank has been approved, and they need a project manager who can run the team without someone holding her hand.”

The position came with a forty-percent raise. If I delivered the project, I’d be shortlisted for European Regional Director.

Six months ago, the opportunity had been good enough to keep me awake all night.

Damian, however, didn’t believe in long-distance relationships. Women attached to the Moretti name, he’d said, didn’t need to chase jobs across the world.

So I’d left my application sitting in drafts.

“I thought you’d already decided against it,” Diana said.

“So did I.” I signed the acceptance form.

The contract was for eighteen months, and my flight left in a week.

Our sixth anniversary was in a week too.

Good. Six years deserved a proper ending, and that date would do as well as any.

Damian returned to our penthouse late on the third night. When the elevator opened, I was at the dining table comparing long-term rentals in Paris.

He set his car keys on the console and waited for me to come to him.

He expected three days of silence to scare me into behaving again—to make me take his coat, ask if he’d eaten, and prove I was still afraid to lose him.

For six years, I had done exactly that. I’d trained myself to anticipate him before he had to ask.

Tonight, I didn’t get up.

Damian shrugged off his own coat and glanced at my screen. “Still sulking?”

“No.”

“Then drop the attitude.” He loosened his tie and pressed two fingers to his temple. “The board meeting ran late, and I had a few drinks. Make me an espresso and bring me something for this headache.”

I kept scrolling. “Painkillers are in the second drawer on the left. The espresso button is at the top.”

The room went quiet.

Damian was used to giving orders, not waiting for people to agree to them.

“Elena.” His voice turned low. “Don’t drag Sofia into what’s between us.”

I lifted the foot encased in a walking boot. “The doctor said I can’t put weight on this for six weeks. If you want coffee, you’ll have to make it yourself.”

His eyes dropped to my ankle. “Nico said it was only a fracture.”

“Right. Only a fracture.”

He caught the edge in my voice but didn’t apologize. Instead, he pulled a bottle of vintage champagne from a leather gift bag and set it in front of me.

“For your birthday. The vineyard released only three hundred bottles this year.”

Two hours earlier, Sofia had posted the same label.

[The boss says a first paycheck deserves a celebration. Luckiest new hire in Chicago!]

I pushed the bottle back. “I’m taking prescription painkillers. I can’t drink.”

Damian’s jaw tightened.

It wasn’t the rejected gift that got under his skin. It was the fact that I didn’t demand to know why Sofia had received hers first or pick a fight about whether he’d bought the bottles together.

As long as I was fighting, he could tell himself I was too invested to leave.

“What the hell do you want from me?”

“Sleep.” I closed my laptop. “My company has a weekend retreat tomorrow.”

“You never go to those things.”

“I thought I’d give it a shot.”

The following morning, I got dressed and wheeled a small suitcase out of the bedroom. Damian frowned when he saw me. “Your ankle needs rest.”

“Diana will look after me.”

“Send the address to Nico.”

I pressed the elevator button and logged out of the Moretti family’s security app. The green location icon turned gray.

“Elena, turn it back on.”

The elevator doors slid shut between us.

For the first time, I didn’t do what he told me.