Nine Choices, One Final Goodbye

Alessia POV:

I stood outside the hotel, waiting for the valet to bring my car. The cool air did little to calm the fire in my veins.

“Leaving so soon?”

Sofia’s voice was a knife in my back. I didn’t turn around. She came to stand beside me, holding out a single, perfect white rose. “A parting gift.”

I stared at it, then met her gaze. “I don’t want anything from you.”

She laughed, a sound like shattering glass. “Oh, but you’ve already taken so much from me, Alessia. Four years of Rico’s time. But don’t worry. I’m taking it all back now. He’s mine. He was always mine.”

“Then you can have him,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m done.”

“Are you?” she purred, her eyes glittering with malice. “You’ll never be done with us.”

A sudden, deafening crash erupted from the street. People screamed. A construction scaffold on the building across the way had collapsed, sending metal poles and wooden planks raining down onto the chaos below.

Rico burst out of the hotel doors, his face pale with panic. His eyes scanned the crowd, not for me, but for her. “Fia!”

He saw her standing beside me, her eyes wide with something that looked more like excitement than fear. A heavy steel beam teetered precariously on the edge of the broken scaffold, directly above her.

“Fia, move!” he screamed.

He didn’t hesitate. He launched himself forward, shoving her out of the way, wrapping his body around hers as they tumbled to the ground. He protected her.

I didn’t even have time to scream. A smaller piece of metal, a pipe, broke free from the tangled wreckage. It arced through the air, unseen in the panic.

And then there was only pain. A white-hot agony in my leg as it struck me, buckling my knee and sending me crumpling to the pavement.

The world went dark, but the last thing I saw was Rico, his arms wrapped tightly around a trembling Sofia, whispering words of comfort to her as I lay bleeding just a few feet away.

I woke up in a hospital room. The sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nose. My leg was encased in a heavy cast, elevated on a pile of pillows, a dull, throbbing ache radiating from my shattered bone.

Rico was there, sitting in a chair by the window. He was trying to look concerned, but it was a poorly rehearsed performance. His eyes kept darting to his phone.

He saw I was awake and rushed to my side, taking my hand. “Ally. Thank god. You’re okay.”

I pulled my hand away. The touch of his skin felt like a brand.

My voice came out as a dry rasp. “Is she okay?”

The question was automatic, a reflex honed by four years of putting her needs first.

“She’s fine,” he said, relief washing over his face. “Just a few scratches. She was really shaken up, though.”

“Go to her,” I said, turning my face away from him. “She needs you.”

He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of something—guilt, maybe—in his eyes. But it passed as quickly as it came. “I’ll be back soon,” he promised.

I knew he wouldn’t.

I closed my eyes, feigning sleep until he left. The silence he left behind was a relief.

He returned hours later with a bouquet of roses that were too bright, too cheerful for the sterile white room. His apologies were just as hollow.

He didn’t stay long. His phone buzzed, and he was gone again, leaving the scent of Sofia’s perfume lingering in the air.

A nurse came in to check my vitals. “Your husband is so devoted,” she said with a kind smile. “He was so worried. He hasn’t left the hospital since you were brought in.”

I just nodded, a bitter taste in my mouth. A few minutes later, a message from Angie appeared on my phone. It was a single photo. Rico and Sofia, huddled together in the hospital cafeteria, his arm around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest. He was home. He just wasn’t with me.

A stark, cold clarity washed over me. This pain, this broken bone, it was a gift. It was the final, brutal truth I needed to see.

The doctor came in to review my chart. “We’ll keep you for a few more days, Mrs. Moretti,” he said, his voice gentle.

“It’s Vitale,” I said, my voice surprisingly strong. “Alessia Vitale. We’re divorced.”

The door to my room swung open.

Rico stood there, a paper cup of coffee in his hand, his face frozen in a mask of pure, stunned disbelief.