Keeper, Not Lover

I left with a single, small suitcase.

An early winter storm had hit New York, blanketing the city in snow.

The steps outside the building were slick with ice.

I hadn't gone more than a few feet before my feet slipped out from under me. I crashed hard onto the pavement.

The suitcase burst open, my sheet music scattering everywhere.

But I couldn’t focus on that.

A sudden, violent cramp ripped through my lower stomach.

The pain was so sharp it buckled me over, my vision tunneling to black.

My hand flew to my belly on pure instinct. A primal terror I’d never known seized me.

And that tearing pain… it threw me back to another winter.

Five years ago. A snowstorm just like this one.

My mother, right in front of me, jumping from the seventh-floor rooftop.

The dull thud as her body hit the ground.

The red blood spreading quickly, staining the dirty snow. Just like this.

"Mom..." I knelt in the snow, staring at the blood.

When Rocco saved me in that filthy alley, when he gave me a home in that warm apartment, I really thought I’d found a family.

Those nights he took me to charity galas.

The way he’d shield me from pushy guests, whispering in my ear, "You're the most beautiful woman here tonight." I'd had such foolish fantasies.

I thought maybe, just maybe, I could have that simple, impossible happiness.

Looking back now, it was all just a game to him. The way a man indulges a pet.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was Chloe.

"Clara, I just stopped by the custom jeweler. Those handmade cufflinks you ordered for Rocco's birthday are ready. The ones with his initials… Should I still have them sent over?"

I covered the mouthpiece with my bloody hand. My voice trembled in the wind.

"No, Chloe. Don't."

"What? But..."

"I changed my flight. I'm leaving the day the contract ends."

I glanced back at the towering skyscraper, at the single lit window of the penthouse.

"He doesn't need a surprise. He doesn't need me."

I moved into the old apartment on the city's edge.

It was bare. A moldy old sofa, a simple table and chairs.

It was perfect.

The cold, the distance… it was a constant reminder of what Rocco and I really were.

I thought I’d stay here until it was time to leave.

On the third evening, my private ringtone went off.

It was Rocco. He wanted me back at the penthouse.

No explanation. Just a command.

When I pushed open the door, I thought I was in the wrong apartment.

Everything was different.

The custom-made bed where we’d spent countless nights was gone, replaced by an ornate, over-the-top Baroque monstrosity.

The simple gray sofa I loved was gone, too. In its place was a velvet couch that looked expensive and deeply uncomfortable.

The impressionist paintings I’d picked out were gone from the walls.

The whole room felt suffocating, dripping with a gaudy luxury.

It was Vivienne's taste.

My heart seized.

"My things?" I grabbed the arm of a cleaning lady, my voice sharp. "Where are my things?"

"Oh, the old furniture and clutter?" The woman pointed towards the door. "Mr. Moretti said to clear it all out. It was all sent to the incinerator in the basement."

"What?!"

I ran for the elevator like a madwoman.

The furniture didn't matter. The clothes didn't matter.

But inside the nightstand, in a small tin box, was the caricature a street artist drew of us on our first trip to Coney Island.

It was the only time he’d ever smiled at me like a normal boy.

And the photo of us kissing at the top of the Ferris wheel.

I’d said to him that day, "They say lovers who kiss at the very top will stay together forever."

He had just smiled and kissed me.

It was the only proof of "love" I had saved over five years.

I sprinted to the incinerator in the basement.

The massive furnace was roaring, the fire lighting up the dark room.

In a pile of trash waiting to be shoved inside, I saw it. The crushed tin box.

I scrambled over, digging through the filthy garbage.

"Miss! That's trash! It's dirty!" a worker shouted.

I ignored him, my hands trembling as I pried the box open.

Inside, there was only black ash. But I could still make out a burnt corner of the photo. The ghostly outline of the Ferris wheel.

The sketch was almost gone. Just a blur of Rocco's face, the edges being eaten by the last glowing embers.

The moment my fingertip touched the ash, it disintegrated.

Along with the last, pathetic piece of my heart.

I knelt there, beside the pile of garbage, and the tears finally came.

"What the hell are you doing?"

A familiar, cold voice came from behind me.

I went rigid.

Rocco was standing at the entrance to the incinerator room, a cigarette between his fingers, frowning at the pathetic sight I made.

"My girl has a taste for garbage now?"

I kept my back to him and wiped my tears away.

I took a deep breath, then rubbed my ash-covered hands hard on my clothes.

"Nothing, Boss."

I turned, the perfect, unbreakable smile already back on my face.

I walked to him and stood on my toes, pressing my lips to his.

"I heard your call and came right away. Just wanted to see if I'd left anything behind."

Rocco looked down at me, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes, but he didn't push it.

He just reached out and patted my head, like he was rewarding an obedient pet.

"Don't decorate on your own again," he said, his voice flat around the cigarette. "Vivienne doesn't like... your cheap taste."

I looked at his face, blurred by the smoke, and the hole in my chest finally stopped bleeding.

"Okay," I nodded obediently.

"Whatever makes you happy."

Anyway, I added silently, there won't be a trace of Clara Vance here soon enough.