2 Weeks Later:
Valentina's POV:
The calendar on her bedroom wall caught the soft morning light—May 15th. Two weeks. Fourteen relentless days since Dante vanished without a trace. No calls. No texts. No cryptic messages soaked in obsession or veiled threats. Just… nothing.
If she was brutally honest, a guilty relief bloomed inside her—a lightness she hadn't dared to feel before.
But beneath the relief was a fissure, sharp and widening.
Why now?Why like this?
Dante wasn't a man who simply walked away. He never loved her. He had claimed her. Told her she lived in his bloodstream, like a pulse he couldn't escape. There were days she felt trapped under glass—every step watched, every smile dissected. Every whispered word felt heavy with unspoken threats.
Then… silence. No goodbye. No fury. Just an empty void.
People like Dante don't disappear. They wait. They plan.
Still, Valentina forced herself forward.
The office building gleamed under the burgeoning spring sun—a towering fortress of glass and steel. Mirella & Co. promised distance. Opportunity. Reinvention.
She stepped through the revolving doors into a hum of purpose: quiet conversations, tapping keyboards, the soft click of polished heels.
But something felt off.
Her inbox, usually bursting with urgent tasks and demanding deadlines, sat nearly empty. A silent void, uncharacteristic and suspicious.
Her phone lay still—no pings of new assignments or client messages.
Instead, fresh faces—newcomers just days in—were handed demanding projects, high-profile clients, and impossible deadlines.
Valentina watched them move through the office like energized bees, buzzing with excitement and praise.
And she sat quietly on the sidelines.
At lunch, she caught snippets of hushed whispers between coworkers:
"Did you see? Valentina barely got any work this week. Thought she was supposed to be a rising star."
"Yeah. The newbies are drowning in assignments while she's… invisible. Feels off, right?"
A cold knot tightened in her chest.
Was this deliberate?
Was someone watching her? Waiting?
She thought of Dante—how he never really let go, how he controlled even when unseen.
A flicker of unease slithered up her spine.
She clenched her fists beneath the table. She wouldn't let this break her.
Slipping on a soft cream blouse this morning had felt like armor.
Today, she reminded herself, she was calm, in control, ready to start over.
She caught her reflection in the polished elevator door—steady eyes, purposeful breath.
I'm not his anymore.
By mid-afternoon, nerves softened into a tentative excitement.
Her phone buzzed.
Shopping after work? Celebrate the new job? You've earned it. <3 —Isabella
Valentina smiled, a spark of rebellion lighting her chest.
This shopping trip wasn't just a treat—it was a declaration: I am not his anymore.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
The boutique nestled snug between a cozy café and a quiet bookstore—two sanctuaries Valentina hadn't dared enter for months.
The soft chime of the doorbell felt like a lullaby, a welcome she hadn't known she'd missed.
Warm light, gentle hums, the rustle of silk and leather—comfort in every detail.
Valentina laughed freely as Isabella brandished a neon-green blazer.
"I dare you," she said, eyes sparkling with a mischievous light.
"You're evil," Valentina teased, her fingers grazing a sleek leather handbag. "But this one… this one's for future CEO meetings."
"Future CEO of Bag Hoarders Anonymous," Isabella shot back, grinning.
Their laughter bubbled up—bright, easy, alive.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Valentina breathed without fear.
But as they sipped iced coffees outside the café, a faint shadow flickered inside her chest.
At the edge of her vision, across the street beneath a flickering lamppost, a dark figure stood—motionless, silent.
Valentina blinked, heart skipping a beat. Her fingers tightened around the paper coffee cup, the plastic lid creaking under the strain.
Nothing.
Her heartbeat quickened, a cold thread of dread weaving through her veins.
Not yet, the silence seemed to whisper.
Not yet free.
She shoved down the knot twisting in her stomach.
Maybe it was her imagination.
Maybe the nightmare wasn't fully over.
She caught Isabella's hesitant glance. Her friend's usual bright smile was a little too measured, eyes flickering nervously to the door.
Valentina tried to swallow the rising tension, forcing warmth into her voice. "You're glowing," Isabella said suddenly, bumping hips playfully.
Valentina blinked, offering a soft smile. "Feels like I'm finally breathing again," she said—but the words caught in her throat. The subtle tension curling between them wouldn't fade.
The drive home was quiet, bathed in soft, golden light.
Valentina replayed the day—the new faces, the stolen laughter, the taste of freedom.
Back at the apartment, the silence welcomed her—not suffocating this time, but earned.
She slipped into bed early, body pleasantly sore, lips curved in the memory of smiles.
Sleep came gently, dreams soft and kind.
______________________________________________________________________________________________
Isabella's POV:
From the doorway, Isabella watched Valentina—her steady breathing, the faint murmur of sleep, the fragile peace resting on her face.
She deserves this, Isabella thought, chest tight.
I won't let anything take it away.
She turned quietly, the door clicking shut behind her.
But the silence was a lie.
Hours later, alone by the bedroom window, Isabella stared at the city sprawled beneath flickering streetlamps.
Empty streets. Quiet sidewalks. Stillness that screamed.
Her skin prickled with an old, cold warning—eyes on the back of her neck.
She scanned again.
Nothing.
Her fingers trembled as she returned to her desk drawer and unfolded three notes—chilling in their simplicity, mechanical in print:
Red looks beautiful on you.You smell like jasmine.You shouldn't walk alone.
One tucked in a coat pocket. One under a windshield wiper. One in a work locker.
She hadn't told Valentina. Couldn't. Not when her friend was finally safe.
"It's just a sick prank," she whispered.
But the lie was fragile.
Tap. Tap.
The window.
Heart pounding, she pulled the curtain aside.
Across the street, beneath a flickering streetlamp, a figure stood—motionless, watching, breathing the same cold air.
Not moving. Not blinking.
She blinked—and it was gone.
The street was empty again.
But the dread in her chest was real.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Dante's POV:
She laughed today.
Not the kind you offer politely at dinner or force through tight lips to keep the peace—No.This was light. Real. Unburdened.
As if I never existed.
Dante sat in the shadowed corner of a rooftop café across the street, espresso untouched, gloves tucked into his coat pocket. The sun bathed her in gold as she strolled beside Isabella, that damn green blazer swinging like a challenge.
He didn't look at Isabella. He never did.
She wasn't the prize. She wasn't the problem.
Just a necessary variable in a carefully measured equation.
He took out his phone, dialing without hesitation.
"Keep your eyes on the friend," he murmured. "Make it messy, but not loud."
Luca didn't ask questions. He never did.
Dante watched as Valentina ran her fingers across a leather handbag, her laugh lifting again—so soft, so alive.She thought this was over.She thought silence meant surrender.
It didn't.
It meant strategy.
You don't burn a house down while the lights are still on.You wait until they're asleep.You wait until they start to dream again.
Then you strike the match.
His lips curved—not into a smile, but something colder.
She wasn't his anymore?
We'll see.