My Guardian Made Me Replace His First Love

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was massive and freezing.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the soaring ceilings, casting a sharp glare over the marble floor. Hundreds of people packed the gallery in silk gowns and black tuxedos. String instruments played softly in the background, but the air felt heavy and suffocating.

I stood near a stone pillar, holding an empty flute of sparkling water. My feet hurt in my plain black heels. I had tried to stay in the shadows all evening. I just wanted the night to end.

Then Alondra walked over.

She wore a backless crimson dress that pooled around her feet. Her diamond earrings caught the light with every step. When she was three feet away from me, she suddenly stopped.

She unclasped her designer clutch, looked inside, and gasped.

The sound was sharp and theatrical. It cut right through the chatter around us.

“It’s gone,” she said. Her voice was loud. Too loud.

People nearby turned their heads. The conversations slowed.

“What’s wrong, Alondra?” a woman in emerald satin asked, stepping closer.

Alondra didn’t look at her friend. She pointed a manicured finger straight at my chest.

“My diamond tennis bracelet,” Alondra announced, her voice ringing out across the gallery floor. “It was in my bag five minutes ago. Right before she bumped into me.”

A cold prickle ran down my neck. My throat tightened. “I never touched you, Alondra.”

“Don’t lie!” she snapped. The string quartet stopped playing. The entire room seemed to turn toward us. Whispers rose like a swarm of bees. “You were hovering around me all night. I guess old habits die hard, don’t they? You grow up on scraps in an orphanage, and you just take whatever shiny thing you see.”

Heat rushed into my face. The cruelty of it took my breath away. Dozens of Manhattan’s wealthiest faces stared at me, their eyes cold, judging, and disgusted.

“I didn't touch your clutch,” I said. I tried to keep my voice steady, but it shook. “Check your pockets. I have nothing.”

“You’re calling me a liar?” Alondra took a fast step forward.

Her hand came up before I could blink.

*CRACK.*

The slap echoed off the marble walls like a gunshot.

My head snapped sideways. The impact sent a white-hot flare of pain across my cheekbone. My champagne flute slipped from my fingers, shattering on the stone floor. The sting burned through my skin, deep and raw.

The entire hall fell dead silent. Nobody moved. Nobody defended me.

My ears rang. My hand trembled as I raised it to touch my burning cheek.

Then the crowd parted.

Enzo stepped through.

He wore a tailored tuxedo, his dark hair slicked back. His face was like carved stone. He didn’t look confused. He didn’t ask what happened.

I looked up at him, and for one brief, stupid second, the last piece of my heart reached out.

I remembered five years of quiet mornings. I remembered the night outside that restaurant in SoHo, when I jumped in front of a blade for him. I remembered the three days I lay in the ICU, fighting for breath, holding onto the sound of his voice. I had almost died for this man.

*Tell them,* I begged silently. *Tell them who I am. Protect me.*

Enzo walked straight to me.

He didn't check my face. He didn't look at my swollen cheek. He grabbed my left wrist in a vice-like grip.

His fingers dug into my bone, bruising and violent.

“Enzo…” I gasped, trying to pull back.

He leaned in close. His breath hit my ear, cold and merciless. He looked at Alondra, then at the watching crowd. He cared about the scandal. He cared about his name. He cared about Alondra’s tears.

He did not care about me.

“Apologize,” he whispered, his voice hard as iron. “On your knees. Now.”

My breath caught in my throat. “What?”

“Do it,” he hissed.

He shoved down on my shoulder and twisted my arm.

The force threw me off balance. My knees hit the cold marble floor with a heavy, sickening thud.

A sharp bolt of pain shot straight through my kneecaps. The shattered glass from my broken glass lay inches from my bare hands.

Hundreds of people stared down at me. Some smirked. Some looked away in polite disgust. Beside Enzo, Alondra smoothed her crimson skirt, her red lips curving into a slow, victorious smile.

Enzo kept his hand pinned to my wrist, forcing me to stay low.

“Say it,” he ordered.

Tears burned my eyes, spilling hot and silent down my cheeks. My voice broke when I finally forced the words out.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I’m sorry.”

Enzo let go. He stepped back as if touching me had dirtied his hands.

“Let’s go, Alondra,” he said softly, turning away from me without another glance.

I stayed there on the marble floor.

My knees ached against the freezing stone. My cheek burned. But inside my chest, the most terrifying thing happened.

The pain vanished.

The tears dried instantly. The heat, the longing, the desperate hope that had kept me awake for five years—every single ember went cold. It didn’t just fade. It turned completely, irreversibly to ash.

I looked down at the polished white marble.

I didn't feel broken. I felt empty. A strange, vast, and terrifying quiet settled into my bones.

The man who made me bleed had finally killed what was inside me.

And for the first time in five years, I was completely free.