He Chose His Sister I Chose My Crown

I placed my phone face down on the table, affecting a casual air.

"Just a friend. We're planning a trip."

“What do you mean, you’re leaving? Who’s going to handle everything at the company?” He pressed his lips into a thin line, his tone laced with disbelief.

I almost laughed. Had he grown so accustomed to his free assistant, the one who handled his dirty work and warmed his bed?

"That's not my problem anymore," I said coldly.

The chill in my voice sparked a flash of annoyance in his eyes, but before he could retort, Bianca's voice called from downstairs.

"Marco, dinner's ready! Don't keep Mamma and Papa waiting!"

The words made my fingers tremble. I looked up at him.

When Marco and I first got together, his parents despised me. They saw me as a nobody from an ordinary family, unworthy of their heir. But back then, Marco had defied them, proudly bringing me to every family gathering and vowing that as long as he was alive, I would always have a place in New York.

This time, however, his eyes darted away. His tone was uncharacteristically harsh.

"After what happened... you know my mother's heart is weak. She can't take the stress. Seeing you right now will only make things worse for her."

He hesitated, his voice softening into a placating murmur.

"Don't overthink it. I'll handle the engagement talk. They're just closer to Bianca because they raised her. Once things calm down… they'll come around."

I watched them go, a dull ache tightening around my chest until I could barely breathe.

Five years. In just five years, he had forgotten the love he once professed, forgotten his promises that no one would ever hurt me.

He forgot everything. He forgot me. He was the one who pushed me into a sculpture of shattered glass and left me to bleed.

After countless rejections, I finally understood. He was never waiting for me. He was waiting for her.

Tears I didn't know I had left streamed down my face, dripping onto the cold floor.

I wiped them away and took a deep, shuddering breath.

Back in the apartment we had shared, I started packing.

Five years of a life together had woven us into the very fabric of this apartment.

And I had been foolish enough to believe he loved me.

The paintings on the walls were all my choice. He used to talk about having a child, about taking our little one to run on moonlit beaches. But before we ever had that child, his love had already died.

My long hours working for him often brought on crippling migraines. He found out and never forgot to call and coax me to sleep, no matter where he was. When the pain was unbearable, he learned massage techniques from the family doctor just to soothe my temples. Now, it was all a hazy, distant memory that no longer felt like mine.

He used to notice every little thing. If my eyes lingered on something in a shop window, he would secretly buy it for me, his gestures clumsy but full of love.

"I never want you to have to ask for anything," he had whispered, kissing my cheek.

I don't know when it started… but at some point, Marco simply got tired of us.

The first time I asked him to marry me, he laughed it off, saying we were too young, that marriage would make us bored with each other.

The second time, I planned a surprise, with candles and the necklace he loved on me. But before I could go through with it, I overheard him talking to one of his soldati.

"I'm bored with Scarlett. The spark is gone. But she's good to me, so I just… can't bring myself to end it."

"A woman proposing to a man... how much more obvious can I be? Hasn't she figured out I don't love her?"

The last time… I gave it everything. I stood before his parents, humbled myself, and said I wanted to marry him. I told them I didn't care about the Ricci family's power or the title of Donna. I just wanted to be his wife. But his adopted sister, Bianca—the girl he grew up with—was there. And when she heard my proposal, she flew into a jealous rage.

Now, it was over. I was finally letting him go.

I tore every picture I had ever taken of him to shreds. The one and only love letter he ever wrote me, I held to a lighter until it was nothing but ash.