She Was the Stain He Couldn't Erase

Augusto pushed open the door and, as always, reached for the small bottle of sterilizing alcohol placed near the entrance.

He poured a drop onto his fingers and rubbed it carefully into his skin.

The familiar scent filled the room.

Yet something felt wrong.

The house was too quiet.

There were no soft footsteps approaching him.

No gentle sound of slippers dragging across the floor.

Augusto lowered his gaze.

Serafina’s little bunny slippers were gone.

“Serafina?”

Only silence answered him.

His brows tightened as he loosened his tie, a trace of annoyance flashing across his face.

“Working late at the collection again?”

He knew her too well.

Serafina had always poured herself into the Family’s art collection. Even though he had enough wealth to let her live comfortably for the rest of her life without lifting a finger, she had never wanted that.

Once, he suggested she give up the work.

That single sentence had caused their biggest argument.

Serafina had stood in front of him, telling him how much the collection meant to her, how it was not something she could simply abandon.

After that, Augusto never mentioned it again.

He let her keep the world she loved.

Thinking back to the filthy roadside diner from earlier, the sticky tables, the dirty floors, and everything he had touched, discomfort crawled beneath his skin.

He needed to wash.

Immediately.

Without hesitation, he walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

But when he stepped into the bedroom afterward, something strange caught his attention.

The framed photo on the nightstand had been turned upside down.

Augusto frowned.

He picked it up.

The frame was empty.

His expression changed slightly.

He walked quickly toward the wardrobe.

The few coats Serafina often wore were missing.

For a moment, his heart skipped.

Then he laughed quietly.

“Did she run away again to cool off?”

He shook his head.

The message she sent earlier came back to his mind.

They had fought before.

She had left before too.

But every time, she came back.

In the end, hadn’t he always fixed everything?

A gift.

A few words.

A little patience.

That was enough.

The faint scent of citrus perfume still lingered in the room.

A scent that belonged only to Serafina.

Somehow, it calmed him.

Before long, Augusto fell asleep.

But at 3:40 in the morning, a nightmare dragged him awake.

His clothes were soaked with sweat.

After changing, he instinctively reached toward the other side of the bed.

His fingers touched only cold sheets.

The moment of contact cleared his mind completely.

Serafina never stayed out overnight.

Never.

Even when they argued, she would always be the first to compromise.

She would send him messages.

Tell him where she was.

Tell him when she would return.

But this time, there was nothing.

Augusto grabbed his phone and opened their conversation.

The only message left was:

[Let’s break up.]

Nothing else.

His expression darkened.

“What did I do this time?”

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

Was it because he forced her to disinfect herself yesterday?

Or because he ignored her anger afterward?

Since when had Serafina become so unreasonable?

He typed a message.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Deleted it again.

Finally, with impatience, he pressed send.

[Come home when you’re finished acting childish.]

The response came almost instantly.

A red exclamation mark appeared.

The message failed.

Augusto froze.

A strange uneasiness spread through his chest.

He called her.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Every call went unanswered.

The cold mechanical voice echoed through the room.

“The number you have dialed is currently unavailable…”

On this stormy night, that voice sounded colder than ever.

Still refusing to believe anything was wrong, Augusto reached toward the bedside lamp.

His fingers touched something beneath it.

A note.

A bank card was placed on top, holding it down.

The words written on the paper were simple.

“What I owe you: 500,000.”

Only six words.

But the final stroke of the pen had torn through the paper.

Augusto stared at it.

Suddenly, a memory from two years ago returned.

The night the creditors came for Serafina’s father’s blood-debt.

The night they cut off her father’s pinky as punishment.

Serafina had knelt on the freezing ground, crying until her voice broke.

Her entire body had trembled.

And he had promised her.

He promised he would never let her face that kind of pain again.

A chill ran down Augusto’s spine.

He grabbed his phone and immediately called the people handling the Family’s accounts.

“Serafina?”

The person on the other end hesitated.

“She came by yesterday.”

“She cleared her name from the accounts.”

Augusto’s grip tightened.

Panic finally began to spread.

No money.

No position.

No support.

Where could she possibly go?

He searched through his contacts and found a number he had not called in years.

“Sorry for disturbing you this late.”

His voice was unusually tense.

“Is Serafina with you?”

After a brief silence, the answer came.

Relief slowly replaced the fear in his chest.

“We had a small disagreement.”

“I’ll pick her up tomorrow.”

The permission was granted.

A faint smile appeared on Augusto’s lips.

He had worried for nothing.

He had underestimated her.

There was no way Serafina could truly leave him.

No one walked away from him that easily.

With that thought, Augusto finally closed his eyes.

And slept peacefully.

Meanwhile, Serafina slowly woke to a cold hand touching her forehead.

Her blurry vision gradually cleared.

A familiar face appeared before her.

Dante Ricci.

Augusto’s old blood-brother.

They had grown up together, fought together, and survived countless battles side by side.

“Don’t worry.”

Dante’s voice was calm.

“You collapsed suddenly, and your phone was dead. I brought you somewhere safe.”

“Rest here tonight.”

Serafina’s body was weak.

Her mind was still heavy.

But the moment she recognized him, caution returned to her eyes.

Her fingers instinctively wrapped around the seashell pendant at her throat.

Dante noticed.

He wanted to say something.

But the words stopped before they left his mouth.

His thumb brushed once over the faded scar on his forearm.

Then he lowered his hand.

Serafina thanked him politely.

Then she lifted the blanket, put on her coat, and prepared to leave.

“You’re still too weak.”

Dante watched her stubborn movements.

“Should I call Augusto to pick you up?”

The moment his name was spoken, Serafina stopped.

Her voice was cold.

“We’re already over.”

“Please don’t mention him again.”

After saying that, she walked toward the door.

Dante did not stop her.

Instead, he simply handed her an umbrella.

“Take this.”

Serafina looked outside.

Rain was still pouring heavily.

Remembering how coldly she had treated him, her expression softened slightly.

“Thank you. I’ll return it.”

Dante placed a card into her hand.

“I saw your evaluation of the collection last month.”

He paused.

“Even without Augusto, your talent is worth recognizing.”

Serafina looked down.

The card carried the name of the Ricci Family’s gallery.

The same gallery responsible for handling the works of the mysterious artist Arturo.

She hesitated.

Arturo.

A name she had admired for years.

His paintings always carried a strange vitality.

Butterflies breaking free from their cocoons.

Young figures diving into endless oceans.

Every piece seemed alive.

As if the artist wasn’t simply painting the world, but revealing hidden emotions buried inside people.

Serafina had always trusted her own understanding of art.

Her judgments had earned respect from many painters who preferred to remain anonymous.

But Arturo was different.

She had never dared to interpret his work publicly.

He never appeared before anyone.

No one outside his inner circle had ever seen his true identity.

Every painting he released carried only one signature.

A single uninterrupted brushstroke.

The Family considered it the only proof of authenticity.

For years, Serafina had dreamed of understanding the deeper meaning behind his paintings.

And now, this might be her only chance.

“If you decide, call me anytime.”

Dante looked at her.

“Or come directly to the gallery.”

After a long silence, Serafina accepted the card.

Dante stood by the window after she left.

A cigarette burned between his fingers.

The room slowly filled with smoke.

He picked up his phone and sent Augusto a short message.

[I’m back.]