Just A Substitute: The Don's Lost Love

Ellie POV I woke before the sun had even breached the horizon. The guest room felt sterile, scrubbed clean of the personality I had cultivated over a decade. My thigh throbbed where the tea had scalded me, a crimson brand hidden beneath my silk pajamas. I didn't cry. I was done crying for Marcus Thorne. I dragged my suitcase from the closet. It was already gaping open. I hadn't unpacked, and I wouldn't. Instead, I began to fill it with things I shouldn't have kept. The diamond tennis bracelet Marcus gave me for my eighteenth birthday. The emerald earrings from my graduation. The platinum watch he’d slid onto my wrist when I turned twenty-one. They felt heavy in my hands. Not with carats, but with the crushing weight of obligation. They were blood money. Payment for being the obedient ward, the pretty prop in his life. I wrapped them in a velvet cloth and shoved them into a small bag. Then, I reached for my neck. My fingers brushed the cool silver of the locket my mother had given me before the car bomb took her and Dad. It was cheap silver, tarnished with age. I unclasped it and tucked it into my bra, pressing it against my skin. It was the only thing in this room that wasn't tainted by Thorne money. "Miss Ellie?" The door clicked open. Maria, the old housekeeper, stood there with a tray of coffee. Her eyes widened when she saw the open suitcase and the pile of jewelry. "You are leaving already?" she asked, her voice trembling. "I'm just organizing, Maria," I lied. My voice was calm, detached. "Don't worry about me." Maria set the tray down. She looked at the jewels. "The Don... he sent these up this morning." She gestured to a stack of boxes on the vanity I hadn't noticed. Black velvet boxes stamped with the logo of the most expensive jeweler in the city. "He said they are to replace the dress you ruined yesterday," Maria whispered. "And an apology for... the misunderstanding." *Misunderstanding.* I walked over and flipped open the top box. A ruby necklace sat inside, dark as fresh blood. It was worth more than David's entire apartment. "Take them back," I said. "Miss?" "Tell him I don't want them. Tell him..." I paused, steadying my breath. "Tell him the only thing I want is for the gardeners to clean the moss off my parents' headstones." Maria nodded, her eyes sad. She knew. In this house, walls had ears, but servants had hearts. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was Eleanor Thorne, Marcus’s mother. "Ellie, darling!" Her voice was piercing. "We are so excited you're home. We're having a family dinner tonight. You must come. Richard misses you." "Eleanor, I don't think—" "Oh, stop it," a different voice cut in. Chloe. She had snatched the phone. "We're all dying to see you, Ellie. Don't be rude. Dinner is at seven. Dress nice." The line went dead. My chest constricted. Chloe wanted an audience. She wanted to parade her victory in front of the entire Thorne clan. I looked at the ruby necklace. I would go. But I would make sure it was the last meal I ever ate at this table. * The dining room was a cavern of mahogany and crystal. The air conditioning was set too low, raising gooseflesh on my bare arms. I wore a simple black dress. No jewelry. Marcus sat at the head of the table, looking like a king on his throne. Chloe sat to his right. I was placed at the far end, exiled near Richard and Eleanor. "Ellie, you look... tired," Eleanor said, picking at her salad. "Travel is exhausting," I said. Marcus didn't look at me. He was busy peeling a shrimp for Chloe. His large, lethal hands moved with surprising delicacy. He placed the meat on her plate, leaning in to whisper something that made her giggle. He used to do that for me. He used to know that shellfish closed my throat. "So," Uncle Sal spoke up, his mouth full of steak. "When is the wedding, Marcus? You two look like teenagers in heat." The table erupted in polite laughter. "Soon," Marcus said, his eyes fixed on Chloe. "We're finalizing the date." "And Ellie," Chloe piped up, her voice ringing clear like a bell. "Marcus told me you brought a little friend? A painter?" "He's an architect," I corrected quietly. "And his name is David." "Right. David." Chloe smirked. "Marcus was so generous to let you keep the allowance all these years in Florence. I hope David appreciates how well taken care of you are." The table went silent. She was implying David was a gold digger, and I was a leech. I gripped my fork until my knuckles turned white. "I haven't touched the allowance in three years, Chloe. I work." Marcus looked up then. His eyes narrowed. "You work in a gallery. That barely covers rent." "It covers enough," I said. He scoffed and turned back to Chloe. "Eat your vegetables, *Tesoro*. You need your strength." He poured her wine. He adjusted her napkin. He was performing a symphony of devotion, and I was the empty chair in the audience. He had forgotten I hated mushrooms, which were piled high on my plate. He had forgotten I didn't drink red wine. He had forgotten me. I watched him stroke Chloe's knuckles. There was a possessiveness in his touch, a dark intensity. He loved her. Or he was obsessed with her. In our world, there was little difference. I stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor, shattering the murmur of conversation. "Excuse me," I said. "Sit down, Ellie," Marcus commanded, not even looking up. "We haven't had dessert." "I'm full," I said. I walked over to him. The room held its breath. I reached into my purse and pulled out the velvet bag of jewelry. I dropped it onto the table next to his wine glass. It landed with a heavy, final thud. Then, I pulled a folded piece of paper from my pocket. The bank transfer receipt for every cent he had sent me over the last four years. I placed it on top of the bag. "Pass the salt, please," Chloe said, oblivious or ignoring the tension. Marcus stared at the bag. His jaw ticked. "What is this?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Rent," I said. "For the cage." I turned and walked out of the dining room. I didn't run. I forced myself to walk. Behind me, I heard the crash of glass shattering against a wall.