He Chose His Sister I Chose My Crown

Marco clearly hadn't expected my composure. His brow tightened, his face darkening.

I turned on my heel and strode out, ignoring their shocked stares. A sharp pain throbbed in my wounded arm, a dull echo of a much deeper agony.

My love for him had bled out during that month in the clinic—a month of painful treatments and his deafening silence. No calls, no visits, just one cold text message: Rest well. I'm busy.

I didn't realize he had followed me out until a shadow fell over me. Marco’s arms wrapped around my waist from behind, his face burying into my neck, his warm breath ghosting over my skin.

“Bianca gets jealous whenever marriage comes up,” he murmured. “The engagement… don’t take it seriously. It’s all my mother. She’s dead set on Bianca becoming the next Donna of the family. But to me, she’s just my sister. We can still see each other, you know. In secret…”

"I don't care," I interrupted, wrenching myself from his embrace. "There's no need for that."

We had been together for five years. I had known every inch of him, been obsessed with his every breath, his every heartbeat. But now, his touch just made my stomach churn.

Marco's expression twisted as he stared at me, as if seeing a stranger. The compliant, ever-considerate Scarlett was gone.

“She grew up with you,” I said, my voice unnervingly calm. “The engagement is what your mother wants. I won’t be the one to stand in the way.”

"Don't worry, Marco. It's family business. I understand I don't fit in. I'm genuinely resigning, not throwing a tantrum." My tone remained perfectly even.

He let out an unconscious sigh of relief. "I knew you'd understand. I…"

Before he could finish, Bianca's voice floated out from the office.

"Marco, darling, have you seen that silk robe I left here?"

Our eyes met. She froze for a second, then blinked innocently. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “I didn’t realize you were still here. Marco and I have been so inseparable, it completely slipped my mind you two were still a thing.”

I offered a faint, detached smile. "It's fine."

Then I turned and strode out of the building.

The next morning, my phone rang. It was my father. He must have heard I’d been cast aside.

“I’m getting old, figlia mia,” his deep voice rumbled through the line. “I just want you home. For five years, you’ve chased after that boy with no real standing, letting his family walk all over you.”

“Come back and help me run the family. You gave everything for Marco, and in the end, he still dismissed you as some gold digger after his family’s power.”

My father had said this to me many times before, and I had always fought him on it—because I loved Marco.

I knew the Castellano family was one of the most powerful forces in Chicago, but none of it mattered. Nothing was more important than the man I loved.

But now, my throat tightened, the words caught between old pain and new pride.

These five years in New York… I never belonged here. Not in the Ricci company, and certainly not in Marco's heart.

"When are you coming back? I’ll have everything prepared for your arrival."

A faint ache bloomed in my chest. In eight days, it would have been my five-year anniversary with Marco.

"In eight days," I said softly. "I'll settle things here, then I'll be back."

I hung up the phone—only to find Marco standing right behind me.

He frowned, leaning in to try and see the caller ID on my screen.

"Eight days? Who was that on the phone?"