Just A Substitute: The Don's Lost Love

Marcus POV The silence in the manor wasn’t just peaceful. It was the heavy, suffocating quiet of a tomb after the stone has been rolled shut. Ellie had been gone for three days. I sat in my study, a tumbler of scotch sweating onto the mahogany desk. Across from me, a wedding planner was droning on about floral arrangements—peonies versus hydrangeas, silk versus velvet ribbons. Chloe sat beside me, her hand resting possessively on my forearm, nodding enthusiastically at samples of cream-colored cardstock. "Marcus, darling, what do you think about the hydrangeas?" Chloe asked, squeezing my arm. Her nails were perfectly manicured, painted a shade of pink that reminded me of bubblegum and tasted just as artificial. "Whatever you want," I said. My voice sounded distant, even to my own ears. I looked at the empty chair in the corner of the room. That was where Ellie used to sit when I worked late. She would curl up with a book, silent as a shadow, just keeping me company. Now, the chair was empty. The air felt thin, lacking oxygen. "The Don seems distracted," my Consigliere, Luca, murmured from the doorway. He hadn't stepped fully into the room. He stood in the hall, watching me with eyes that saw too much. "I'm fine," I snapped. I pulled my arm away from Chloe to pick up my drink. Chloe pouted. "You've been grumpy ever since Ellie threw that tantrum and left. Honestly, Marcus, she’s just looking for attention. She’ll be back once she realizes the real world doesn't care about her little artistic temperament." "She returned the money," I said. The words tasted like bile. "A dramatic gesture," Chloe scoffed. "She probably kept a stash. Or that boyfriend of hers is funding her." I stood up abruptly. The chair scraped violently against the floor, silencing the wedding planner mid-sentence. "I need air," I said. I walked out, ignoring Chloe’s call of my name. I found myself wandering toward the guest wing. I told myself I was checking security protocols. I told myself I was making sure the staff had cleaned the room properly. I pushed open the door to Ellie's room. It was stripped bare. The bed was made with military precision. The closet doors were open, revealing empty hangers that looked like ribcages stripped of their flesh. Maria was in the corner, dusting a shelf that was already clean. She didn't turn around when I entered. "Maria," I said. "Don Thorne," she replied. She didn't curtsy. She didn't smile. Her voice was flat, devoid of the warmth she had shown me since I was a boy. "Did she leave anything?" I asked. I didn't know why I was asking. "Only the memories you ruined," Maria said, scrubbing a spot on the wood that didn't exist. I stiffened. "Watch your tone." "I am an old woman," she said, finally turning to face me. Her eyes were wet. "I watched you bring that girl into this house. I watched her look at you like you hung the moon. And I watched you let her walk out with burns on her skin while you comforted a woman who cried over a broken nail." "It was an accident," I said, my jaw tightening. "Was it?" Maria reached into her apron pocket. "She left this in the trash. I thought... I don't know why I kept it. Maybe so you could see what you threw away." She placed a sketchbook on the vanity. It was battered, the corners soft from use. I waited until Maria left the room before I touched it. My fingers brushed the cover. I opened it. The first page was a sketch of the garden. The lines were tentative, childish. The next few pages showed the manor from different angles. Then, the subject changed. Me. There were hundreds of them. Me reading in the library. Me on the phone, brow furrowed. Me laughing at something—I didn't even remember laughing like that. In every drawing, I looked... heroic. Strong. Safe. The charcoal lines were filled with a reverence I didn't deserve. I flipped to the end. The style had matured, the lines sharper, darker. The last drawing was dated four years ago. The day she left for Florence. It was a sketch of my back, walking away from her. The shading was heavy, oppressive. At the bottom, in tiny, faint script, she had written: *The only god I ever prayed to turned out to be made of stone.* I slammed the book shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Dust motes danced in the air. "Luca," I barked into the empty hallway. He appeared instantly, as if he had been waiting. "Get the jet ready," I said. "We're going to Florence." "To bring her back?" Luca asked. "To see if she's really gone," I said, my voice rough. But as I looked at the empty room, a cold knot formed in my stomach. I had a feeling the Ellie who drew these pictures didn't exist anymore.