CHAPTER 17: The Silence Between Us

MIA CRUZ

I tossed and turned, my sheets tangled around my legs, my mind refusing to give me peace.

No matter how many times I shut my eyes, the scene played on repeat—the gunshot, the screams, the way Marco’s arms had caged me against him as he rushed me out the back door.

The way blood had spread across the pristine floor, staining the elegance of the night with something raw and violent.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing sleep to take me, but it never came.

And then—

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

My alarm blared through the room, dragging me into the present. I groaned, pressing my hands over my face. The sharp ring was an unwelcome reminder that life didn’t pause just because my world had been turned upside down.

I forced myself to sit up, my body feeling heavier than usual. My heart was still racing from memories I couldn’t shake, my hands curling into fists in my lap.

Everything had changed last night.

And I had a feeling there was no going back.

I dragged myself out of bed, my limbs sluggish, like I was moving through water. My body ached—not from exertion, but from the weight of my thoughts.

The cool tiles sent a shiver up my spine as I padded into the bathroom, turning on the sink. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping it would wash away the memories clinging to me like a second skin.

It didn’t.

Sighing, I grabbed my toothbrush and started my morning routine. Brush, rinse, wash my face—each step mechanical, a distraction. I avoided my reflection, afraid of what I’d see staring back at me.

By the time I stepped into the kitchen, my mom was already at the stove, humming softly as she stirred a pot of something warm and comforting. The scent of spices filled the air, but instead of making me hungry, my stomach twisted uncomfortably.

She glanced over her shoulder, her expression shifting the moment she saw me. “You look exhausted.”

I forced a small smile. “Just tired.”

Her gaze lingered, like she wanted to press further, but she simply nodded. “You should eat something.”

I pulled out a chair, intending to, but as soon as I thought about food, my stomach churned. The queasiness made me push my plate slightly away.

“I’ll eat later,” I mumbled, rubbing my temples.

Mom frowned but didn’t push. “Alright. But don’t let yourself go hungry.”

I nodded absentmindedly, but food was the last thing on my mind.

No matter how much I tried to push last night away, it was still there, hanging over me like a storm waiting to break.

I left the kitchen before my mom could question me further, retreating to my room with a heavy sigh. Last night lingered in the air, refusing to fade no matter how much I tried to shake it off.

Focus, Mia. Work. Routine. Normalcy.

I opened my wardrobe, scanning the neatly arranged clothes before pulling out a crisp white blouse and a fitted black skirt. Slipping into them felt like putting on armor—something polished, something professional. I fastened the small buttons on my cuffs, stepped into a pair of low heels, and grabbed my bag.

One last glance in the mirror. Presentable. Collected. Even if inside, I felt anything but.

I made my way out, my mom calling after me, “Don’t forget to eat later!”

I waved in acknowledgment, stepping outside into the soft morning light. The bus stop was already bustling with people, the usual mix of commuters lost in their own worlds. I exhaled slowly, grateful for the noise, the movement—anything to keep my mind occupied.

The bus arrived with a hiss of brakes, and I climbed inside, sliding into an empty seat by the window. The city blurred past in a streak of colors, but my reflection in the glass was sharp.

Last night had changed something. I wasn’t sure what, but I felt it.

And no matter how much I tried to ignore it, I had a feeling Marco Valentino wasn’t done with me yet.

Marco hadn’t reached out since last night.

And it hurt.

I told myself it didn’t. That I shouldn’t expect anything from him, that we weren’t anything. But that didn’t stop the disappointment from settling in my chest like a heavy weight.

By the time the bus pulled up in front of my office building, I had convinced myself to push it aside. Work. Focus. Routine.

I stepped inside, offering a polite smile to the receptionist as I made my way to my desk. The office hummed with the usual morning energy—keyboards clicking, phones ringing, muted conversations.

I set my bag down and powered on my computer, but my fingers hovered uselessly over the keyboard. My thoughts were elsewhere.

“Mia.”

I blinked, looking up to see Mr. Gravitas standing by my desk, his sharp gaze fixed on me.

“Yes?” I straightened, trying to shake off the fog in my head.

“I just asked if you finished reviewing the proposal,” he said, his tone even but firm.

“Oh—right. Almost,” I lied, reaching for the nearest file and pretending to skim through it.

He arched a brow, clearly unimpressed, but didn’t press the issue. “Just make sure it’s done before noon.”

“Yes, sir,” I muttered, relieved when he turned and strode back toward his office.

Exhaling, I tried to refocus. But then a voice cut through the office, pulling my attention away.

“Breaking news—last night’s tragic events at the Valentino Charity Gala have now been addressed by Marco Valentino himself…”

I turned my head sharply toward the television mounted on the wall, my pulse quickening.

The screen showed Marco, standing at a podium, dressed in a sharp black suit. His expression was composed, unreadable, but his presence commanded attention.

I swallowed hard as his deep voice filled the office.

Marco’s voice remained steady, his expression composed as he addressed the press. Cameras flashed, capturing every moment.

“As many of you are aware, last night’s attack was a senseless act of violence—one that took the lives of three esteemed guests and left many shaken. Mr. Frederick D’Angelo, a respected businessman and philanthropist; Senator Alvaro Moretti, a dedicated public servant; and Ms. Isabella Romano, a beloved artist and advocate for children’s education, were all taken from us in a brutal and cowardly act.”

The crowd murmured at the confirmation of the victims’ names.

“These were not just prominent figures in our society. They were fathers, mothers, mentors, and friends. No words can fully express the depth of this tragedy, nor can any action undo what has been done. However, the Valentino Foundation is committed to ensuring that their families—especially their children—are taken care of. We will be covering their educational expenses, securing their futures, and standing by them in their time of grief.”

His grip on the podium tightened slightly, his jaw locking for a moment before he continued.

“Violence and fear will not dictate our way of life. The authorities are working diligently to bring those responsible to justice, and we will not rest until they are found. Security measures at all future events will be increased, and I personally vow to see that such a tragedy never happens again.”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping across the reporters. “This city, this community, has always stood strong in the face of adversity. We will not cower. We will not allow fear to define us. Instead, we will honor the lives lost by continuing forward—stronger, together.”

A beat of silence passed before the reporters erupted with questions, their voices overlapping in a chaotic frenzy.

Marco didn’t flinch. He gave a small nod before stepping away from the podium, his security flanking him as he exited.

I stared at the screen, my chest tightening.

He was composed. Controlled.

But I knew better.

He was furious. And whoever was behind this…

They had just made the worst mistake of their lives.

The newsroom buzzed with conversation as reporters dissected every word of Marco’s speech, speculating on who could be behind the attack and what it meant for the city.

But I wasn’t listening.

I was still staring at the screen, my fingers gripping the edge of my desk.

Marco hadn’t reached out. Not last night. Not this morning.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That I had no right to expect anything from him. But the sting in my chest said otherwise.

“Cruz!”

I snapped out of my daze, my boss’s sharp voice cutting through the haze.

Mr. Gravitas stood in the doorway of his office, arms crossed. “You planning on working today, or are you just going to gawk at the TV like the rest of them?”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Sorry, sir,” I muttered, quickly turning back to my laptop.

“Sorry doesn’t get the job done,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “Get to work.”

I nodded, forcing myself to focus on the emails piling up in my inbox.