How Could I Bear You Sad

“You’re the boss,” I said calmly. “It’s your right to decide where the project goes. And as for Sandra—she’s never been the issue between us.”

Matteo’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me. “Oh? Then what is the issue?”

“Even if it wasn’t Sandra, there’d be another—Clara or Martha…” My voice trailed off. “A change is a change, Matteo. There’s no ‘why’ behind it.”

He didn’t understand. His smile was mocking, as if our conversation was just another game to him. “Then tell me,” he pressed, leaning closer. “What’s really the problem?”

I ignored his question, switching gears with a colder tone. “Maybe we should discuss your investment in my business.”

He let out a dry laugh. “No matter what the reason is, I don’t have the time or desire to play your rival actor.”

His words hit like a slap and I turned my head away, stung. “What do you mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he replied, his voice dripping with disdain. “When your family accepted you back, it was because you were married to me—the Mendez Family’s leverage.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. Matteo’s accusation struck at something I had tried so hard to keep separate: my family’s affairs. I never wanted our relationship tainted by the scheming of the Argento Family, especially not by my father, Johan Argento, who had been relentless with his demands. The countless phone calls, even the surprise visits to Centrale—I had ignored them all. But Matteo was right; my father had likely approached him directly.

Bitterness rose in my throat, heavy and suffocating.

Our tense silence was broken by the abrupt ringing of Matteo’s phone. He answered quickly, his tone brisk. “I’ll be there soon.” Without another word, he turned and left.

As the door clicked shut behind him, I swallowed back the word “divorce” that had been on the tip of my tongue. I went back to packing, determined to leave on my own terms. By midnight, my suitcases were filled, every trace of my life here tucked away.

I picked up my phone, skimming through unread messages before habitually opening my social feed. The latest post was from Sandra, timestamped just five minutes earlier:

“Hospitalized after a car accident. Fortunately, he was there.”

A photo accompanied the post: a hand holding a glass of water. The hand had a distinctive circular scar—Matteo’s, from when he’d once cooked for my birthday. The dim lighting and the light-gray sofa in the background left no doubt; he was with Sandra.

So that’s why he rushed out. I thought we might at least part amicably, but it was clear now he didn’t care. Mentioning divorce to him would only be seen as another one of my “moods.” He believed I would never leave him.

He was wrong.

When he returned to find only a divorce agreement and resignation letter waiting in my place, I wondered how he’d react. Whatever his response, it wouldn’t matter anymore.

The next two weeks blurred together. I immersed myself in work, found a new apartment and ignored the spectacle of Matteo doting on Sandra. Seeing them together used to make me sick, but now it only numbed me.

After the project was completed, Matteo hosted a celebratory banquet for Sandra at the Milan Club’s hotel. I arrived, realizing only then that it was also Sandra’s birthday.

A towering three-tiered cake adorned with pink roses stood as the centerpiece. As everyone watched, Sandra made her wishes aloud.

“My first wish: May Mendez’s Group continue to prosper.”

“My second wish: May Mr. Mendez find happiness and peace.”

Her voice softened as she reached her final wish. She closed her eyes, a knowing smile playing at her lips and blew out the candle marking her twenty-fourth birthday.