I used to believe the beginnings told the truth.
In the early days, Matteo De Luca had looked at me like I was the only quiet place left in his world. That look had been the reason I married him too fast, ignored the warnings, and walked willingly into a life wrapped in silk and shadows.
Now, lying alone in our penthouse bed, I stared at the ceiling and wondered when that look had died.
Matteo stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me, phone pressed to his ear. He spoke in low Italian, sharp and controlled.
Business is always business, his voice never rose and will never soften. Whenever he ended the call, he didn't turn around.
That hurt more than the words ever had.
I pushed myself upright, the sheets sliding down my arms. "Do you remember Tuscany?" I asked quietly.
He stiffened, a pause and then, "This isn't the time."
I laughed once, breathless and bitter. "It never is."
Silence stretched as the city glowed below us, cold and endless. I remembered another skyline, another night.
Tuscany had chaos and sunlight, when we were younger and reckless. He had taken my hand in a crowded street like he was afraid someone would steal me.
That night, in a borrowed villa, he had kissed me like a promise. No guards, no phones, just heat and laughter and a future that felt simple because we didn't know better.
Back then, Matteo had touched my face like it was something breakable.
Now he didn't touch me at all.
"You used to talk to me," I said. "You used to tell me things."
He finally turned, His gray eyes were shuttered, unreadable. "And you used to sleep."
That tone, flat, distant, but cut deep. "Don't do that," I said. "Don't pretend this is normal."
"This is our life," he replied. "You knew that."
"I knew you," I said. "Or I thought I did."
He walked toward the dresser, adjusting his cufflinks with precise movements. The same hands that once trembled when he slid a ring onto my finger now moved like machines.
"You married a De Luca," he said. "Not a dream."
I stood, wrapping a robe around myself. "I married a man who swore he would never shut me out."
He shrugged his shoulders for a moment, I thought he might break, instead, he looked past me, as if the wall was more interesting.
"You're safer not knowing," he said.
There it was, the excuse he always used; safety, protection and distance disguised as love.
"I don't feel safe," I whispered. "I feel alone."
That got his attention as his gaze snapped back to mine, something dark flashing beneath the control. "You are not alone."
"You're right here," I said. "But you're still gone."
The words landed, I saw it. They were all about guilt, anger and fear, but he buried them fast.
"I have work," he said, grabbing his jacket.
"You always do," I replied.
He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. "This conversation is over."
"So is our honesty," I shot back.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded final.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, my chest tight and I wasn't asking for his secrets. I was asking for his presence, but somewhere along the way, love had turned into a performance. Smiles for camera; silence behind closed doors.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Elena.
You okay? You sounded off earlier.
I stared at the screen, then typed back: I don't think my husband knows me anymore.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared then: Or maybe he never did.
I swallowed hard.
The memory came uninvited, the first time Matteo had said my name like a vow. The way he'd whispered it against my skin, like it was sacred, like I was his.
Now I was just a liability he managed with distance.
Hours passed, night deepened, when Matteo returned, I pretended to sleep. I felt the mattress dip, and perceived his warmth beside me, but he didn't touch me nor pull me close.
I remembered when he couldn't sleep unless I was pressed against his chest.
The contrast was unbearable.
The next morning, I found him in the kitchen, with strong black coffee untouched. Luca sat across from him, relaxed, confident, dangerous in his smile.
"Isabella," Luca said smoothly. "You're up early."
I nodded, already uneasy, because I noticed Luca always watched too closely.
They stopped talking when I entered.
That was new.
"What were you discussing?" I asked, forcing calm.
"Business," Matteo replied.
Luca smirked. "Family business."
Something in his tone made my skin prickle. "Does that include me?"
Luca's gaze flicked to Matteo, then back to me, "some wives understand their place, others struggle."
My heart stuttered. "My place?"
Matteo slammed his cup down. "Enough, Luca."
Luca raised his hands. "Relax. I meant no offense."
But the damage was done.
I looked at my husband, waiting for him to correct it, or even defend me, but he couldn't.
He didn't.
The silence was an answer.
I stepped back, my pulse roaring in my ears. "Excuse me."
I left the room with my hands shaking, Luca's words echoing in my head.
Some wives understand their place.
You're either replaceable, be there for decoration or be disposable.
I locked myself in the bathroom and stared at my reflection. The woman looking back wore designer silk and haunted eyes.
This wasn't the life I'd chosen.
This wasn't love.
Later that day, alone in the penthouse, I opened the drawer where I kept old photos. Matteo was all smiles without armor.
I pressed the photo to my chest.
If that man still existed, he was buried deep.
And I was starting to realize something terrifying.
Love wasn't dying because it was weak.
It was dying because Matteo was letting it.
My phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
You deserve more than silence, Isabella.
No signature.
My breath caught.
Outside, thunder rolled over the city.
And for the first time, I wondered if walking away would hurt less than staying invisible.
I didn't know yet that this thought, this doubt, would shatter everything.
But somewhere in the building, Matteo stood alone in his office, staring at the same old photo.
And neither
Some of us knew that the real betrayal was already in motion.
End of Chapter Four