The first few days after I got fired felt like a blur.I moved through them like a ghost — no destination, no purpose, just the weight of everything pressing against my chest. The villa, the sea, the scent of salt that once felt like freedom — all of it became memories I couldn't stop replaying.
I rented a small apartment near the city outskirts. It wasn't much — one room, cracked walls, and a window that faced the noisy street — but it was quiet enough to think. Or maybe too quiet. My phone stayed face-down on the table, screen dark, no messages, no calls. Especially not from him.
Marco.
I told myself I was glad it was over — that his silence was exactly what I needed. I told myself a lot of things I didn't believe. Because every time I tried to sleep, I could still hear his voice in my head, calm but sharp, the way he said my name. Every time I walked by a car with tinted windows, I half expected him to step out, furious, demanding answers I didn't have.
I tried to find work again, sending out applications, showing up at offices where people looked at me with polite smiles that didn't reach their eyes. I wasn't naïve — I knew my reputation was ruined. Marco De Luca's world had power, and I was the girl who had been close to him — too close. Nobody wanted that kind of trouble.
The irony burned. I had once thought being near him would give me control. Instead, I'd lost everything.
By Thursday, I stopped pretending. I sat on the floor with my laptop open and stared at my résumé for an hour before closing it. I couldn't even remember who I was before him — before the villa, before the truth about our fathers, before the way his touch made everything complicated.
That night, it rained. Hard.The kind of rain that drowns out thoughts, turns everything gray and empty. I leaned against the window, watched the water streak down the glass, and whispered to myself, "You're fine, Isabella. You're fine."
But I wasn't.
Because somewhere across the city, I could feel him thinking about me too.
Marco hadn't been himself since that night.That's what everyone said — even his men noticed it. He went to work, he handled business, he spoke less, slept less. The scars from the confrontation were almost healed, but something else had stayed — something heavier.
He told himself he didn't care. That what happened between us was a mistake — a distraction. But every time he passed the terrace, every time he walked by the guest room I used to stay in, his mind betrayed him. He saw me there — barefoot, laughing, angry, alive.
A week.Seven days of silence.
And yet he couldn't stop checking his phone. Couldn't stop wondering if I was safe. If I hated him. If I'd ever forgive him for the things he said.
He didn't tell anyone, but he had someone follow me for a few days — just to be sure I was fine. The reports came back the same each time: She's working on getting her life together. She's keeping her distance.
Good, he told himself. That was what she needed.Then why did it feel like losing her was the one thing he couldn't afford?
I didn't know any of that, of course. All I knew was that my chest tightened every time I walked by a certain brand of car or heard a voice deep enough to sound like his. The city was full of reminders — little ghosts that refused to fade.
One morning, I passed by a café and saw a newspaper headline with his name. Marco De Luca Expands Business Empire Despite Recent Turmoil. His picture was there too — sharp suit, cold eyes, unreadable expression. The same man who once held me like I was something fragile.
I folded the paper before anyone could see my face and walked away.
By the weekend, I'd stopped pretending I could avoid him forever.The universe had a cruel way of circling back, and I could feel it — that magnetic pull that hadn't disappeared, only buried itself deeper. Maybe he hated me. Maybe he blamed me. But part of me still wanted to see him again, even if it hurt.
Even if it destroyed whatever was left of me.
That night, I sat on the balcony of my small apartment. The air smelled like rain and exhaust. Somewhere, a siren wailed in the distance. I picked up my phone for the first time in days, stared at his number.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
Then I put it down.
Some stories weren't meant to be restarted.
But fate — or maybe Marco — had other plans. Because the next morning, when I opened my door to leave for a job interview, there was a black car parked across the street. Engine off. Windows tinted.
And for the first time in a week, my heart remembered how to race.