Chapter 4: Leaving Him Cold

Alessia

The drive was a blur.

When I pulled up to my father’s home—the house I’d grown up in—cars were already lining the narrow street. People I hadn’t seen in years were gathered on the porch, talking in hushed voices, holding cups they didn’t drink from.

My stomach dropped.

I got out slowly, legs stiff and uncooperative.

Maria potted me first. Her face changed the second she saw me. That look—sympathy mixed with dread—told me everything before she even opened her mouth.

But she did.

“Alessia…” she said softly, stepping toward me.

“Where is he?” My voice was a whisper, but sharp. “Maria. Where’s Papa?”

Her eyes filled instantly. “He’s inside. I—I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t wait.

I moved past her, through the crowd, through the house that still smelled like his cologne and old wood and safety. People watched me pass, parting like I was a ghost in black leather and grief. No one stopped me.

I found him in his bedroom.

He was lying still, too still. Eyes closed, hands folded neatly over his chest like he was just napping. But I knew. I knew.

He was gone.

“No…” I shook my head, stumbling forward. “No, no, no—” I dropped to my knees beside the bed, clutching his hand. It was already cold. “Papa, please,” I whispered. “Please—just open your eyes. Just for a second. I’m here now. I’m here.”

My voice cracked, but I kept talking. Kept begging. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back sooner. I should’ve come sooner, I—”

He didn’t move. Of course he didn’t.

And still, I begged him like he might. Like I could bargain with time. Like regret could raise the dead.

I pressed my forehead against the back of his hand and let out a sound I didn’t recognize. Something deep and broken and not meant to be heard by anyone else.

I cried until my throat burned and my skin felt raw.

My father was dead.

And I hadn’t been there when he took his last breath.

I hadn’t held his hand or kissed his forehead or told him thank you for all the ways he tried to protect me—even if it meant marrying me off to a man who never wanted me.

The funeral was a blur. The flowers. The formalities. The people who said things like “He’s in a better place” and “He was so proud of you.” None of it meant anything. Because he was gone. And I had nothing left to prove it had all been worth it.

Adrian didn’t come. He didn’t call. Didn’t even ask how I was holding up.

Not that I expected anything different.

The morning after the funeral, the sky broke open with soft rain. Just enough to blur the windows, not enough to stop anything.

I stood by the front window in Papa’s house—his house, not mine—watching the neighborhood I once knew turn unfamiliar. Maria’s steps were quiet behind me. She’d stayed the night, sleeping on the couch, insisting I shouldn’t be alone. I hadn’t slept at all.

“I booked the ticket,” I said, still facing the glass. “It leaves in five hours.”

She was silent for a moment, then, “You’re really doing this?”

I nodded once. “I can’t stay. Not after everything. There’s nothing here for me anymore.”

There was a beat of hesitation before she came closer. I could feel her eyes on me, searching, maybe trying to understand the kind of pain I wasn’t saying out loud.

“Are you sure, Alessia?” she asked softly. “This isn’t something you can undo.”

“I know,” I said.

And I did.

I turned to her then, forcing a smile that pulled at my already cracked heart. “I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure in my life.”

But God, it hurt.

Every part of me felt like it was holding in a scream. A deep, aching sound that lived just behind my ribs. The kind you couldn’t make in front of anyone else. The kind that made people uncomfortable. The kind that made you look crazy.

Maria’s eyes brimmed with tears. She pulled me into a hug so sudden, I didn’t have time to flinch.

“I’ll help you,” she whispered against my shoulder. “No matter what. Even if it’s just from here. I’ll always be here.”

I squeezed her back, harder than I meant to. “Thank you.”

When she pulled away, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper with the address of where I’d be staying—temporary, small, distant.

“But Maria… can I ask you something?” I said.

She nodded. “Anything.”

“If Adrian ever asks about me… don’t tell him. Not where I went. Not how I am. Nothing.”

Her brows pinched, lips parting like she wanted to ask why. But she already knew.

Still, she whispered, “Even if it’s impossible?”

I let out the smallest laugh, low and dry. “Especially if it is.”

She looked down, wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, and tucked the paper into her purse. “I won’t say a word. I swear it.”

We didn’t talk much after that. The car arrived. She helped me load the suitcase. I hugged her again at the curb, not as a cousin, but as someone who had kept one last thread tied to my past.

And then I left.

The plane was half-full. I picked a window seat, pressed my forehead against the glass before takeoff. I didn’t look back. I didn’t cry.

I just breathed.

I was empty. Not numb exactly, but scraped raw.

The moment the wheels left the tarmac, it felt like my old life peeled away with the runway below me. I wasn’t Adrian’s wife anymore. I wasn’t anyone’s daughter anymore. I wasn’t anyone.

But I would be.

Somewhere, in a new place, with no one watching or waiting or demanding pieces of me I couldn’t afford to give, I would learn how to be someone again.

Maybe not today. Not tomorrow. But soon.

My hand drifted to my stomach.

No bump. No movement. Just the secret only I knew.

I closed my eyes and whispered, “You’re free now too.”

I stared out the airplane window as the clouds swallowed the sky, and for the first time since the funeral, a memory slipped through the cracks.

Not one I asked for.

Just… one I couldn’t outrun anymore.

The first time I met Adrian Volkov, I was wearing a dress my father picked out. Light blue. Modest neckline. Silk that whispered around my legs. I remembered smoothing the skirt in the car, my hands shaking just enough to make my rings click against each other. My father had told me to smile. “Be polite,” he said. “And whatever you do, don’t talk too much.”

I didn’t know it then, but I wasn’t being sent to meet a man—I was being delivered like a peace offering.

Adrian didn’t stand when we walked into his office. He didn’t offer his hand. He looked up from his phone, blinked once, and said, “You’re early.”

That was his first sentence to me.

Not hello, not it’s good to meet you.

Just that flat, unimpressed tone.

His suit was black. His eyes even darker. No warmth, no smile. Just sharp lines and a sharper silence.

I remember feeling small in that room. Like the furniture cost more than my education. Like I was already shrinking under the weight of what this arrangement was going to mean.

But I smiled anyway.

I sat when my father gestured for me to sit. I folded my hands in my lap. I said all the right things. Because I thought that’s what good daughters did.

Adrian signed the contract without hesitation. His pen barely paused.

When it was my turn, my hand trembled. I looked at my father. Then at Adrian. He didn’t even glance up. His gaze stayed fixed on his watch like time was wasting.

I signed.

In that moment, I told myself something so foolish, so painfully naïve I can hardly believe it now.

He just needs time.

I thought maybe he was guarded. Maybe he didn’t know how to show affection yet. Maybe I could be patient. Loving. Kind. And eventually, he’d soften.

I thought maybe if I made him coffee in the mornings… if I kissed his cheek before bed… if I wore the perfume he once complimented by accident… maybe I could win him over.

I kept trying, long after I knew I was bleeding for someone who didn’t know how to notice wounds.

I made excuses for him. Called his silence “privacy,” his coldness “stress,” his indifference “discipline.” I turned myself inside out trying to make a man love me who never saw me as more than a convenience.

And still, even now, some small part of me hated that he never chased after me. Not even once.

But I wasn’t going to keep chasing someone who only ever turned away.

Not with this new life inside me.

Not when I finally had something—someone—worth protecting.

The flight attendant came by to ask if I wanted something to drink. I shook my head, then let my hand fall gently to my belly.

It still didn’t feel real.

I traced the hem of my shirt with my thumb, lips barely moving as I whispered to the one person who’d never have to beg me to stay:

“I’ll give you all the love he never gave me.”