The villa was silent when night fell—so silent that I could hear the sea breathing against the cliffs, each wave a whisper that carried too many memories.
Marco had sent me here to keep me safe. "Stay at the villa until I handle this," he'd said before leaving that morning. "Don't call, don't text. Just wait."
I had tried not to worry. I cleaned the rooms, changed the sheets, and kept myself busy, pretending the sound of the wind through the shutters wasn't a warning. But when the sun began to set and there was still no word from him, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong.
He hadn't gone to a meeting—he'd gone to confront them. The men who had been spying on him for months. The ones who wanted him dead.
So when I finally heard the low growl of his car coming up the drive, relief hit me so hard I nearly cried. I ran to the terrace, ready to see him, to know he was okay.
But the moment he stepped out of the car, my relief turned to fear.
Marco looked like he'd walked through fire. His shirt was torn and smeared with blood and dust, his hands raw and bruised. There was a cut on his cheek, a thin line of red against his skin. But what scared me most was his expression—hard, distant, like he was staring at someone who wasn't really there.
"Marco," I whispered, hurrying toward him. "You're hurt—"
He brushed past me without a word, the air around him heavy with the scent of smoke and gunpowder. He didn't even glance at the food I'd set out. He just walked straight into the living room, his movements sharp and tense.
"Let me help you," I said quietly, following him.
He stopped, his back to me. "Don't."
The single word made my stomach drop. His voice wasn't cold—it was hollow, like something inside him had snapped.
"Marco, please, just tell me what happened."
He turned then, slow and deliberate, his eyes meeting mine for the first time that night. What I saw there made me step back.
"You should've told me," he said, his voice low but shaking with fury. "You should've told me who you really are."
I frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"
He laughed once—a dark, broken sound. "Don't play innocent, Isabella. Not now. Not after everything."
My throat tightened. "I don't understand."
He moved closer, every word sharper than the last. "Do you want to know what I found out tonight? While I was out there bleeding, fighting to clean up a mess that wasn't even mine? My enemies—those same bastards who've been watching me—laughed in my face. They said, 'You don't even know the woman you're living with.' They said you were planted here. That your father sent you to spy on me."
I froze. My chest went cold. "That's a lie."
"Is it?" His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. "Because your father's name has come up more than once in their deals. In their files. And you, conveniently, show up in my life just when everything starts to fall apart."
"That's not true," I whispered, my voice trembling. "You know it's not."
He paced the room, his hands shaking. "Tell me, Isabella—what did he promise you? Money? Protection? Or were you supposed to get close enough to destroy me yourself?"
"Stop it!" I shouted, tears spilling down my cheeks. "You think I'd ever do that to you? You think I'd risk my life, stay by your side through everything, just to betray you?"
He turned to me then, his expression breaking for a heartbeat. I saw it—the flicker of doubt, of pain. But then it was gone, replaced by that same cold fury.
"Pack your things," he said quietly.
I stared at him, my mind blank. "What?"
"You're leaving the villa tonight. I don't want you here when the sun rises."
"Marco, please." My voice cracked, desperate. "You sent me here because you trusted me. Because you cared about me. Don't let them destroy that. Don't let them win."
His gaze wavered, but only for a second. "The mistake was letting you stay."
The words hit harder than the accusation. I wanted to scream, to make him look at me, to see that I was telling the truth—but he'd already turned away.
He walked out to the terrace, staring at the dark sea below. The wind howled through the open doors, lifting the curtains like ghosts. I stood there for a moment, my heart breaking, before I finally walked out.
The drive back to the city felt endless. The sky was bruised with clouds, and the rain came in thin, sharp sheets that blurred the road ahead. I didn't cry. I couldn't. The shock was too deep for tears.
By morning, I was standing in the lobby of the company again—cold, exhausted, hoping maybe Daniel could help me make sense of it.
He was already waiting by the glass doors, his hands in his pockets, his face unreadable.
"Daniel," I began, forcing my voice to stay calm. "I need to talk to you. Something happened last night—"
He shook his head before I could finish. "You don't have to explain."
"What do you mean?"
He sighed, eyes soft with pity. "He called me."
My chest tightened. "Marco?"
"Yes." Daniel looked down. "He gave the order himself. You're out, Isabella."
For a moment, I couldn't breathe. "No… Daniel, please, you have to talk to him. It's not what he thinks. Someone's lying to him."
"I know," Daniel said quietly. "But he won't listen. He's convinced you were working with your father. He said he doesn't want to see you again."
I stared at him, numb. The words didn't feel real.
He handed me an envelope—my final payment, my dismissal, my silence written in paper. "I'm sorry," he murmured.
I nodded slowly, unable to speak, and turned away.
As I stepped out into the morning light, the city felt colder than ever. Cars rushed past, people moved on with their lives, and I stood there—empty.
Somewhere by the sea, Marco was probably still staring at the horizon, thinking I had betrayed him. And I couldn't even hate him for believing it.
Because love, I realized, wasn't destroyed by lies.It was destroyed by the moment you stopped fighting to know the truth.