Rising From Ashes: The Architect's Comeback

Sienna Vitiello POV

I didn't go home to cry.

I went straight to my office and packed a single box.

My degree. A framed photo of my parents. The small, resilient cactus Giulia had given me.

I left the files. I left the contact lists. I left the solutions to the problems I knew Valeria would create within the week.

I typed my formal resignation letter on my phone while waiting for the elevator.

It was two sentences long.

With the digital trail established, I marched back to Dante’s office.

His secretary tried to stop me, half-rising from her chair.

"He is in a meeting with Ms. Rossi," she stammered.

I pushed past her and shoved the door open.

Valeria was perched on the edge of his desk, laughing.

They stopped the moment I entered.

Dante looked annoyed, irritation flickering across his features.

"We are discussing strategy, Sienna."

I walked up to the desk and placed my phone down, showing him the email I had just sent.

"I resign."

Dante rolled his eyes. He picked up a pen and twirled it between his fingers, bored.

"Stop the drama, Sienna. You’re upset about the promotion. Take a week off. Go to the spa."

He didn't believe me.

He thought I was a fixture. A lamp that could be moved but never removed.

"I’m not upset," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I’m done."

I pulled the hard copy I had prepared earlier from my pocket.

"Sign it."

He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time that day.

He saw the lack of emotion in my eyes. He saw the void where his loyal assistant used to be.

He snatched the paper, signed it with a sharp, angry scrawl, and shoved it back across the mahogany.

"Fine," he snapped. "If you want to throw a tantrum, go ahead. You’ll be back begging for your job in a month."

I took the paper.

"Thank you," I said.

I turned to leave.

"Oh, and Sienna?" Valeria called out, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Leave your key card on the desk."

I dropped the plastic card on the carpet.

I didn't look back.

I took a cab straight to the penthouse.

I called a real estate agent who specialized in discreet, cash-only transactions for the underworld.

"I want it sold," I told him. "Today."

"But Ms. Vitiello, the market is—"

"I don't care about the price," I interrupted, cutting him off. "I want it gone."

Two hours later, a shell company owned by the Russian Bratva bought it.

They paid twenty percent under market value.

I didn't care.

I packed one suitcase.

Clothes. My passport. The cash from the sale.

My phone buzzed against the countertop.

It was a text from Giulia.

Sienna, please come to the Gala tonight. It’s my birthday. I know you hate him right now, but do it for me. Please.

I looked at the suitcase.

I looked at the empty apartment, stripped of its soul.

One last night.

One last performance.

I would go. I would say goodbye to the only Moretti who had ever treated me like a human being.

And then, I would vanish.