He Chose His Ex, I Chose Vengeance

Isabella POV:

Giovanni froze, his face a mask of disbelief. "Marry my brother? Bella, this isn't funny. Stop joking."

He reached for me, a forced smile on his lips, as if my words were just a childish tantrum he could soothe away. His touch felt like spiders crawling on my skin. I pulled my arm back as if burned.

"I'm not joking, Giovanni," I said, my voice as cold as the marble floor beneath my feet.

The truth of it finally seemed to penetrate his thick skull. The color drained from his face. "No. I won't allow it."

"You don't get a vote," I said, turning my back on him and shutting the door to Domenico's penthouse suite, the new home I had just moved into. My home. The click of the lock was the most satisfying sound I had ever heard.

His frantic texts started moments later.

`Bella, open the door. We need to talk.`

`This is a mistake. You love me.`

`I'll fix this. I promise. Just give me a little more time with Sofia. Then it will be our turn.`

I deleted each message without replying. Our turn would never come. I was done waiting.

The next morning, I focused on my new reality. I needed to understand the man I was about to marry. I asked Domenico’s head of staff, an older, stern woman named Elena, about his preferences. His favorite coffee, the type of books he read, the music he listened to in the evenings.

I spent the afternoon at a high-end men's boutique and found a set of vintage cufflinks, simple platinum squares with a single, dark sapphire in the center. They were understated, powerful, just like him.

As my driver pulled up to the estate that evening, the headlights illuminated a pathetic scene. Giovanni was standing by the large trash receptacles near the service entrance, his shoulders slumped. He was throwing things away. My things.

A small, hand-painted jewelry box I’d had since I was a child. A collection of worn paperbacks we were supposed to have read together. The matching mugs we’d bought on our first trip upstate. All of it, discarded like garbage.

He hadn't seen me. I watched for a moment, a dull ache in my chest, before telling the driver to continue to the main entrance. The pain was just a ghost, an echo of a love that was already dead.

When he found me in the formal living room a few minutes later, he looked flustered. "Bella. I was just… cleaning out some old stuff. To make more room for… for when we get things back to normal."

It was such a weak, pathetic lie.

"Don't worry about it, Giovanni," I said, my voice light. "It's good to get rid of things you no longer have a use for."

He frowned, not quite understanding the bite in my words, but a flicker of unease crossed his face.

Before he could respond, Sofia appeared, a bright, innocent smile on her face. "Bella! There you are. I was hoping you'd join us for dinner. Gio is taking me for hot pot!" She used a nickname for me, *Bellina*, that felt like sandpaper on my nerves.

She turned to me, her eyes wide. "Dom isn't back yet?"

"He's handling business in Chicago," I replied calmly. "He'll be back tomorrow."

Giovanni shot me a quick, questioning look. How did I know his brother's schedule? He quickly dismissed it, probably assuming one of the staff had told me. He was still so blind.

"Come on, Bella," Sofia insisted, grabbing my arm. "Let's all go together. Like a family."

The irony was so thick I could have choked on it. But I allowed her to pull me along, forced to sit in a car with the man who broke my heart and the woman who was the reason for it.

At the restaurant, Giovanni ordered the spiciest broth for Sofia, the one she loved, even though he had a notoriously weak stomach and couldn't handle anything more than mild.

I watched him as he ate, his face growing progressively paler. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He kept reaching for his glass of water, trying to pretend he was fine.

It used to be my job to watch out for him. I would have ordered a bowl of plain rice for him, made sure he had milk to soothe the burn. I knew him better than he knew himself.

Now, I just watched.

"Isn't this delicious, Gio?" Sofia said happily, completely oblivious to his suffering. "You should have more."

He forced a smile, his lips tight with pain. "It's great."

I saw him wince as he swallowed, his hand moving subtly to his stomach. I kept my own hands in my lap, my expression neutral.

Sofia tried to scoop some vegetables into my bowl. "You're not eating, Bella."

Giovanni’s eyes darted to me, a silent plea in them. He wanted me to help him, to save him from this self-inflicted misery, just like I always did. But he couldn't ask, not in front of Sofia. He had to maintain the illusion that he was the strong, perfect boyfriend.

I realized then that his love was a currency he spent differently on different people. For Sofia, he would swallow fire and smile through the pain. For me, he had only ever offered the convenience of habit. He had never been willing to suffer for me. Not once.

Suddenly, a waiter carrying a large tray of drinks stumbled near our table. The tray tilted precariously.

Everything happened in a flash.