Chapter 4

Seven years together. I’d thought that meant something, that Castro would at least trust my character. But in Oriana’s presence, those seven years might as well have been seven minutes. Her word alone was enough to condemn me; one accusation, and I was guilty beyond redemption. The favoritism was unmistakable, his blind devotion to her undeniable. And me? I was merely the understudy who’d forgotten her place.

There was no point in arguing further. Ignoring Castro’s angry calls, I walked away, my cheek still stinging from his slap. Not wanting to overshadow my colleagues’ celebration, I quietly settled the bill and texted them: “Something came up. Please enjoy the rest of the evening; dinner’s on me.”

Back home, I saw our apartment for the first time in seven years. Every corner held memories: the window seat where we’d shared Sunday morning coffee, the kitchen island where he’d taught me to make his grandmother’s tiramisu. What once felt magical now felt poisonous, each memory a thorn in my heart.

I found a moving box and spent the night methodically erasing our relationship: the matching “Beauty and the Beast” slippers, the “his and hers” coffee mugs, and a whole collection of professional couple photographs—holiday cards, vacation shots, carefully staged moments of perfect happiness. These had been my security blanket, my proof that what we had was real. Now they were just artifacts of an elaborate performance.

Castro didn’t come home for two weeks. Between finishing my last jewelry designs, I systematically emptied the apartment. I sold or donated every piece of furniture I’d chosen, every decorative touch I’d added. The space returned to its original state: stark, minimalist, black and white, emptiness echoing off the walls.

The night before my departure, I tried calling him one last time. Each attempt met with immediate rejection. Finally, a text appeared: “Unless you’re ready to admit your guilt and properly apologize to Oriana, we have nothing to discuss.”

I laughed bitterly at my phone’s screen. So be it. Some conversations were better left unsaid. My early morning flight beckoned. As I wheeled my suitcase out, this space that had once felt so precious now felt like a prison I was finally escaping.

Just before boarding, my phone lit up with birthday wishes. Friends and colleagues sent hopes for my future, wishes for happiness, prayers for true love. I responded to each one before switching off my phone.

As the plane lifted off, I made a silent promise to myself: I would be happy. With so many people wishing me well, how could I not be?