Discarded Love, The Reaper's Regret

Elena Vitiello POV The penthouse was silent. It was a sprawling glass cage in the sky, overlooking a city that looked like a circuit board of gold and darkness. My phone buzzed on the marble counter. A text from Dante. Won't be back. Handling the situation. Don't wait up. I didn't reply. I deleted the thread. Then, I went into my contacts and deleted his number. I didn't block him-that would draw attention-I just removed the name. He was nothing more than a string of digits now. I went to the master closet, a mausoleum filled with designer gowns, silk blouses, and shoes that cost more than a mid-sized sedan. I walked past them to the small safe in the back. I punched in the code and took out a burner phone and a flash drive. This was the real Elena. The rest was just a costume. I sat on the floor and began the digital scrub. I logged into the joint accounts and removed my authorization. I cancelled the recurring orders for his favorite Barolo. I unlinked my email from the estate's security notifications. Piece by piece, byte by byte, I was erasing myself from the Moretti infrastructure. My finger hovered over the Instagram icon on my personal phone. I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't. I opened it. Sofia's story was at the top. Of course it was. I tapped it. A photo of a yacht deck. A bucket of crystal-chilled champagne. And in the corner of the frame, a hand resting on the railing. I knew that hand. I knew the scar on the knuckle, the heavy gold signet ring bearing the Moretti crest. Safe and sound, the caption read. My hero. He wasn't handling a crisis. He was drinking champagne on a boat while his wife sat alone in an empty apartment. It was my birthday. I closed the app. I walked to the kitchen, the silence amplifying the click of my heels on the tile. The staff had left for the night; I had dismissed them early. I opened the fridge. There was nothing prepared. Dante usually ordered from the best Italian restaurant in the city on Fridays, but he wasn't here to order. I found a box of dried pasta and a jar of sauce. I boiled the water. The steam hit my face, hot and damp, mimicking the tears I refused to shed. The front door beeped. I froze. He wasn't supposed to be back. Dante walked in. He looked disheveled, a rare state for him. His tie was loose, his top button undone, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the forearms I used to cling to. But as he moved closer, the scent hit me. He smelled of sea salt and that cloying vanilla perfume. He stopped when he saw me standing over the stove. He held a small white box in his hand. A bakery box. "You're cooking?" he asked, frowning. "I was hungry," I said, my voice flat as I stirred the pasta. He walked over and placed the box on the island. "I picked this up. On the way back." He opened it. It was a small vanilla cake. Generic. No writing. It looked like something an assistant would buy at a grocery store five minutes before closing. "Happy birthday," he said. The words felt heavy, forced. I stared at the cake. He remembered. Or rather, his calendar reminded him, and he felt a twinge of obligation strong enough to stop at a bakery but not strong enough to stay home. "Thank you," I said. He looked at the pot of boiling pasta, bubbling violently. "That's dinner? For a birthday?" "It's fine, Dante." "It's pathetic," he muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Get dressed. We'll go out." "I saw the photo," I said. He paused. His hand fell to his side. "What photo?" "The yacht. Sofia's story." He didn't even flinch. "She was shaken up. We needed to get her away from the city for a few hours until the threat was neutralized. It was protocol." "Protocol involves champagne?" His eyes narrowed, the gold flecks hardening. "Don't start, Elena. I am tired. I spent the last four hours cleaning up a mess so the Family doesn't look weak. I came home to spend the last hour of your birthday with you. Don't make me regret it." Make him regret it. As if my existence was a burden he graciously tolerated. "I'm not hungry anymore," I said. I reached out and turned off the stove. The bubbling died instantly. His phone rang again. The sharp trill cut through the tension. He looked at the screen and sighed-a sound of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. "I have to take this," he said. "It's the Consigliere. It's about Sofia's security detail." "Go," I said. "Elena-" "Go, Dante. It's fine." He hesitated. For a second, I thought he might see me. Really see me. See the woman who had loved him since she was sixteen, the woman who had written his name in journals and prayed for his safety when he went to war. But he just nodded. "I'll make it up to you." He turned and walked out. I stood in the silence of the kitchen. I looked at the cheap vanilla cake with its waxy white frosting. I reached into the drawer and pulled out a single match. I struck it against the box. The flame flared, bright and hot, consuming the oxygen. I stuck the match into the center of the cake like a candle. "I wish," I whispered to the empty room, watching the flame burn down towards the frosting. "I wish to stop loving you." I blew it out. Smoke curled into the air, grey and vanishing, just like us.