Seven Years as a Secret Lover, One Month to Become His Regret

The night before I left, I thought I should at least say something to Damien, so I called him. I sat on the stripped mattress with my phone balanced on my knee, listening to the line ring once, twice, three times before the call cut to silence. I dialed again. Rejected. A third time. Rejected. Each dismissal arrived faster than the last, as though even the minor effort of letting it ring was more than he cared to spend on me.

After a while, he sent me a message.

If you haven't realized your mistake and aren't genuinely ready to apologize to Alessia, then I don't think there's any reason for us to speak.

I stared at the screen until the words blurred. Somewhere outside, a car door slammed and an engine idled—one of the neighborhood patrols that moved through Valenti-controlled blocks after dark, a reminder that even the street beneath my window belonged to his Family and not to me.

I smiled bitterly. Well, if that's the case, then we won't speak.

I set the phone face-down on the bare mattress and pressed my palms flat against my thighs until the trembling stopped. There was nothing left to dismantle, nothing left to box. The apartment was already a ghost of itself, and tomorrow I would be too.

Early the next morning, I headed out with my suitcase for my flight. The hallway was quiet. No soldier stationed at the door—there never had been one for me, because guarding someone required acknowledging she existed. I pulled the door shut behind me without locking it. Let whoever came next find it open. I was done securing things for Damien Valenti.

As I left what was once my warm and cherished home, I felt nothing but overwhelming relief. The autumn air outside tasted clean and sharp, free of leather and tobacco and the particular silence of a man deciding I was not worth a conversation.

Just before boarding, my phone buzzed with countless birthday messages. I had nearly forgotten—twenty-eight today. Some wished me great success, some wished me peace and happiness, and some wished me a blessed marriage with a wonderful partner. Strangers and acquaintances offering kindness that the man who'd shared my bed for seven years had not managed once in half a month.

After replying to each one, I turned off my phone.

As the plane took off and the city shrank below me—Valenti territory, Moretti territory, all the invisible lines drawn in old blood—I thought to myself: I will be happy.