My Ex-lover Begged for My Love after He Abandoned me

No theatrics. No yelling. Just a promise.

I slept for six hours straight. Dead sleep. The kind only agony can buy.

When I woke, the villa was dark, except for the bluish glow of the giant TV flickering across the marble floor. I turned it on, needing noise, distraction—anything to fill the silence.

And there it was.

Breaking news. Fireworks over the sea. Lights glittering on the surface of a luxury yacht.

Creed.

On one knee.

A ring the size of a small planet in his hand.

Alina squealing. Crying. Throwing herself into his arms.

The anchor’s voice cooed over the footage like this was a fairytale ending:

"The world had only known Creed as a low-profile bodyguard. But tonight, he is revealed to be Winston Salerno, billionaire heir to the Salerno fortune."

Cut to him in a suit, hair wind-tousled, eyes full of fake sincerity.

“I did it all,” he said smoothly, “because I wanted to be close to the woman I love… Alina.”

Cue fireworks. Cue kiss. Long. Sloppy. Too much tongue for prime time.

I laughed. Loud. Ugly. A sound that didn’t belong to me anymore.

Then my phone rang.

Her name flashed on the screen.

Alina.

I answered. I wanted to hear it from her lips.

“Did you watch Winston’s proposal to me?” she sang, giddy like a drunk ballerina. “It was so fairytale. Sorry you couldn’t be there.”

I said nothing.

She giggled. “Lucky me, right? That lowkey bodyguard you fuck around turned out to be a billionaire. The heir to Salerno. And he chose me.”

Another pause.

“Oh, and you’re invited to the wedding,” she purred. “Not as a guest… but as the loser.”

Click.

I hung up. And I just sat there.

Smiling. Because they had no idea what kind of storm was coming for them.

I didn’t wait.

I called my father straight from the villa phone. His assistant answered, crisp and chirpy, until I said, “Put him on. Now.”

A pause. Then his voice.

“Scarlett,” he said, cautious. “Are you alright?”

“No,” I replied coolly, “but I’m getting there.”

A breath, then silence. He knew better than to ask why.

“I’ve made a decision.”

“About?”

“Zacharias Colombo.”

I let the name settle, heavy as a guillotine.

“I’ll marry him. Today.”

I could hear the sharp inhale, the rustle of fabric as he stood from whatever plush seat he’d been lounging in.

“You… Scarlett, you’re serious?”

“I’m already dressed.”

A beat of stunned silence. Then joy. Genuine, giddy, capitalistic joy. He barked something at his assistant.

“London,” he told her. “Book her the fastest jet. Zacharias will be thrilled. I’ll follow within the hour. Make sure her security detail is doubled—”

I hung up before he could finish.

His excitement made my stomach churn, but I’d take that flight. I’d go to London. I’d play the obedient heiress, the loyal daughter, the desperate woman seeking solace in power. In arms that would shield me… and fund the war I was about to start.

But not yet. I didn’t go to the airport right away.

Instead, I went to her grave. The only place I could still breathe.

The cemetery was quiet. Cold. The kind of silence that respected the dead more than the living.

I knelt, the hem of my coat sweeping wet stone. My fingers brushed over the engraved name, delicate and trembling for the first time in days.

“Mother,” I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

I rested my forehead against her tombstone, closing my eyes. The ache in my body dulled, but the ache in my chest burned hotter.

“They think they’ve won. That I’m broken. But you raised me better than that, didn’t you?”

A tear slid down my cheek, but I wiped it fast.

“I’m not going to cry for him again. Not for her. Not for anyone. I’ll marry Colombo. I’ll wear their power like armor. And then…” I stood, staring down at the grave, wind tugging at my hair like a ghostly hand. “I’ll burn every one of them down.”

---

I arrived at the private terminal dressed like vengeance in heels.

Black silk clung to every cruel curve, slit high enough to start wars. My sunglasses were oversized, the kind you wear when you’re either hiding heartbreak or planning someone’s downfall. In my case, both. Lips painted in blood-red, of course. A warning and a weapon.

I didn’t flinch as I stepped onto the tarmac. The jet waited—sleek, silver, mine. The ground crew parted like I was Moses in Louboutins. Good. Let them stare.

I boarded like it was a throne room, not a cabin. Each step deliberate. My heels clicked a rhythm of ruin. I didn’t smile. Queens don’t smile when they’re marching toward fire. They just make sure the crown doesn’t slip.

Once seated, I tapped the call button. A flight attendant in crisp black appeared in seconds.

“Stock the entire jet,” I said coolly. “I want champagne, couture, Cartier. I want to land like sin itself.”

She blinked. Nodded. Left without a word. Smart girl.

I pulled out my phone, opened my private social, and snapped a single photo—legs crossed, thigh high and bare, champagne flute balanced just so. My sunglasses hid my eyes. Dangerous. Desirable. Untouchable.

The caption was simple:

Mid-air, mid-mayhem. I can’t wait to marry my fiancé tonight. #excited

I hit post and smirked.

Good bye, Creed.