Chapter 2

Her mother’s excited voice immediately came through the phone: “That’s fantastic, sweetheart! We’ll start the paperwork right away—once it’s done, there’s no turning back. It’s a point of no return.”

She gripped her phone tightly, fingertips trembling, but her voice remained unshakeable. “I won’t change my mind.”

Her mother was about to hang up but hesitated, cautiously asking, “What about that boyfriend of yours? Didn’t you chase after him forever? I thought you were head over heels for him.”

The word “boyfriend” felt like a knife twisting in her chest.

Ariana’s mind instantly flashed back to the hospital room—the cruel laughter, Luigi sprawled carelessly on the bed scrolling through social media, his friends’ vicious mockery, and the devastating realization that he’d wasted three years dating her solely to execute some twisted revenge plan for Leila Brown.

Her heart constricted so violently she could barely breathe, like someone had reached into her chest and was squeezing it with bare hands.

“I’m done with him,” she heard herself say, her voice raw but eerily steady. “Completely done. Forever.”

After hanging up, Ariana stood motionless on the sidewalk, letting the bitter wind whip through her hair. She stared up at the bleak gray sky, drew in a deep breath that burned her lungs, and turned toward what she had foolishly called “home.”

The moment she pushed open the door, the familiar scent punched her in the gut.

Ariana froze in the entryway, staring at the living room she knew so well, feeling like she was trapped in someone else’s nightmare. This was Luigi’s apartment—the one he’d casually tossed her a key to after finally acknowledging her feelings.

That day, he had leaned against the doorframe with that trademark smirk and shrugged: “Wanna shack up?”

Back then, she’d blushed like an idiot, heart soaring with joy, believing it was the beginning of their love story rather than what it actually was—convenient access for his ongoing psychological torture campaign.

She had spent countless nights lying beside him, dreaming about their future wedding in this very living room, picturing their children running around, fantasizing about growing old together in this space.

Now those memories were like acid in her veins. Moving in together? Just another calculated move to maximize her pain when the final blow came.

She couldn’t comprehend the depths of his obsession with Leila—to waste three years of his life with someone he despised, to live with her, to sleep with her night after night… all to build the perfect illusion before destroying her completely.

For the next three days, Ariana didn’t so much as text Luigi at the hospital. She locked herself in the apartment and systematically purged every trace of him from her life.

She found the journal where she’d documented her pathetic crush—a thick, worn notebook with every page filled with lovestruck ramblings.

“OMG saw Luigi in the library today!!! White button-down, those jeans—DYING. Had to pretend to read because I couldn’t stop staring!”

“HE ACTUALLY SPOKE TO ME TODAY!!! Just asked me to pass his coffee but I swear our fingers touched and there was a MOMENT. Haven’t washed my hand yet lol.”

“I CANNOT BELIEVE IT. He said YES. ME. Luigi Maggiore is dating ME. Is this real life?? I’m literally shaking writing this!!!”

Ariana flipped through page after cringe-worthy page, tears streaming down her face, each drop burning like fire. She threw the journal into a garbage bag with such force it tore through the plastic, her hands shaking with anger—at him, but mostly at herself.

Next came the gifts she’d spent thousands on—the sterling silver tie clip she’d saved three months for, the limited-edition watch she’d stood in line overnight to purchase, the designer jacket that cost more than her rent. Each item representing months of sacrifice and planning on her part, probably tossed in a drawer and forgotten on his.

Finally, the dozens of photos she’d secretly taken and printed of him. Pictures of Luigi giving campaign speeches for student president, dominating the basketball court, holding court in hallways surrounded by admirers—each one had once made her heart flutter like a trapped bird.

She dumped everything into the trash, methodically erasing every physical reminder of her former delusion.

By the evening of the third day, Ariana had finally purged the last item. Standing in the center of the now barren living room, she felt a strange lightness wash over her, like shedding a skin that had grown too tight.

Just then, the front door swung open and Luigi walked in. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the noticeably emptier space. “What the hell did you throw out?” His tone was sharp, demanding.

Ariana looked up, meeting his gaze without flinching: “Nothing important. Just garbage I should’ve gotten rid of years ago.”

Luigi stepped closer, irritation evident in his voice: “I was in the fucking hospital after a serious accident. Where were you?”

Ariana’s lips curved into a hollow smile, her voice ice-cold: “You’re walking around just fine, aren’t you? Guess it wasn’t that serious after all.”

Luigi froze, clearly caught off guard by her tone. He recovered quickly, softening his approach: “I heard you donated blood for me. I was worried about you, so I came to check.”

His gaze dropped to her arm, his voice dropping to that seductive murmur she once found irresistible: “Are you in pain?”

Ariana pulled her arm away like his gaze might contaminate her. “No,” she said flatly, as if speaking to a stranger.

Luigi’s brow furrowed deeply, clearly unsettled by this new version of her: “What the fuck happened while I was gone? You’re like a completely different person.”

Ariana’s lips twitched into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes: “Different? How so?”

Luigi didn’t answer, but they both knew exactly what had changed. The old Ariana had looked at him like he hung the moon and stars. She’d once spent three straight nights by his bedside when he had a common cold, checking his temperature every hour, making homemade soup, practically worshipping at the altar of his minor discomfort.

Yet now, after what was supposed to be a life-threatening accident, she hadn’t even bothered to call.

Luigi’s intense gaze searched her face, hunting for some clue to this sudden transformation. His voice dropped to that practiced, intimate tone he used when he wanted something: “You seem stressed. My boys are throwing me a welcome-back rager tonight. Come with me?”

Chapter 3