My Consigliere, I Will Not Stand Behind You Anymore

I moved quickly.

It took less than four hours to erase every trace of myself from the penthouse.

This was the most sought-after piece of real estate in Manhattan, our marital home in name only.

But when the real estate agent brought potential buyers for a showing, they could barely tell anyone had ever lived here.

Just like me. After all these years, I had failed to leave any mark on Damian's life.

"Miss Moretti, an anonymous, quick sale means the price will take a major hit. This is Park Avenue, after all."

"Sell it." I pressed my fingerprint onto the digital agreement, not even bothering to look up. "Close the deal today."

I had bought this place with the commission from my first money-laundering job, naively thinking it would one day be a home.

Now, it just seemed like an expensive joke.

Due to the family's internal transfer procedures, I had to stay in New York for another week.

The day Damian returned, a storm was raging over New York, and visibility at Teterboro Airport was near zero.

I was organizing data when my phone screen lit up with a message from Damian:

[Landed.]

Before, no matter what I was doing, even if I was in the middle of a delicate dance with federal agents, seeing that word would have sent me speeding to the tarmac.

I remember one time, running a high fever, I forced myself to wait in the pouring rain for two hours just to confirm his route was secure.

I ended up passing out in the car on the way back, nearly causing a pile-up.

Afterward, Damian had only frowned and adjusted his cufflinks. "If you're not well," he'd said, "don't force it."

No concern, just a statement of fact.

But I had agonized over those three words for a long time, feeling like I had messed up, pushing myself even harder to prove my worth.

Looking back on it now, I was so pathetic.

I turned off the screen, tossed the phone aside, and went back to checking the data.

That evening, the family held a small welcome dinner for the triumphant return of Damian and Isabella.

I didn't want to go, but as the family's Chief Advisor, my absence would have been an open act of defiance.

I arrived late and chose a seat in a quiet corner.

The atmosphere at dinner was loud and phony. The stars of the show were, of course, Damian at the head of the table and Isabella, who was glued to his side.

She wore a vibrant red backless gown and was animatedly recounting tales from Milan Fashion Week.

Damian swirled the whiskey in his glass, listening with his head tilted, showing no signs of impatience.

When Isabella would get excited and grab his arm, he would only frown slightly but never pull away.

"Oh, by the way, speaking of coming back..."

Isabella's voice suddenly rose, her gaze sweeping over to my corner.

"Ava, what was that about? Damian and I were left freezing on the tarmac."

"Weren't you always the one who handled pickups?"

Instantly, all eyes at the table turned to me, filled with probing curiosity.

Damian finally looked up.

Across the long table, his gaze was deep and indifferent, as if he were looking at any other subordinate who had made a mistake.

I leisurely cut into the rare steak on my plate, dabbed my lips with a napkin, and met Isabella's deceptively innocent gaze.

"His personal travel arrangements are not part of my job description."

The fake smile on Isabella's face froze.

A collective gasp went through the room.

Damian's brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes.

Of course. He was probably used to it.

Used to me handling all his trivial matters like some high-end nanny, used to me being at his beck and call.

A sudden refusal, like a trusted gun jamming, displeased him.

The dinner ended under a strange, heavy cloud.

As everyone was leaving, Damian stopped me at the end of the hallway.

"What's this tantrum about?"

He stood behind me, his voice low. His custom cologne, mingled with the scent of tobacco, was the very fragrance I once adored.

I stopped and looked at him.

The hallway light cast shadows across his chiseled features. There was a time I thought being able to gaze at him like this for a lifetime was a blessing.

"I don't know what you mean, Consigliere."

"Isabella is spoiled. She means no harm."

Damian paused, as if trying to find the right words.

"She was a real help in Europe, fending off some unnecessary social obligations. It's not like you to humiliate her in front of the Don over something so trivial."

I knew it. He thought I was throwing a fit over Isabella, that it was why I had publicly embarrassed her.

Looking at his entitled expression, my patience for pretense had run out.

"Damian Costello."

It was the first time I had ever said his full name. My voice wasn't loud, but it cut him off cold.

It was enough to make the hand adjusting his cufflink freeze mid-motion.

He looked up at me, a genuine flicker of confusion finally dawning in his eyes.

"I'm not throwing a tantrum."

"And it's not about who you attended some charity gala with."

I looked him in the eye. My heart felt as if it were being squeezed by an invisible hand, only to be slowly released.

Ten years. It was time for it to end.

I took a deep breath, the words that had been circling in my mind for an eternity finally finding their voice.

"Let's call off the engagement."