Keeper, Not Lover

My body went completely still.

In the dark, Rocco couldn't see my face.

He couldn't see the tears soaking his collar.

And he would never know that in that moment, my heart died.

But I didn't push him away.

This was the last time. A final moment of warmth, even if it was stolen, even if it was meant for someone else.

I held him back with all my strength, burying my face in his neck so he wouldn't feel me shaking.

Just this once.

Let me pretend I'm the one he loves.

The elevator doors opened to the underground garage.

Rocco didn't let go. He scooped me up into his arms and carried me toward the black Rolls-Royce.

The driver discreetly raised the privacy screen.

Rocco tossed me onto the wide leather seat and followed, his heavy body pressing down on me.

He bit at my collarbone, his hands roaming my waist.

"Don't move," he growled, the command thick in his throat.

He fumbled in his suit pocket and pulled out a small, exquisite box. Inside was a massive pink diamond ring.

It was the matching piece to the necklace he’d sent me.

He grabbed my left hand and forced the ring onto my ring finger.

It was a perfect fit.

I stared at the brilliant, flashing diamond, my heart pounding.

On this finger...

Was this a proposal?

Even after he'd just whispered another woman's name, a tiny, stupid flame of hope flickered inside me.

"Rocco, what is—"

I wanted to ask. What does this mean? Do you want to marry me? Even if it's just to spite Vivienne?

Just then, a shrill ring shattered the mood in the car.

It was Rocco's private phone.

He scowled, about to hang up, but froze when he saw the name on the screen.

"Vivienne?"

The moment he answered, the lust and drunkenness vanished from his face, replaced by pure panic.

"What? Where? Don't be afraid, I'm coming right now!"

Vivienne's terrified screams came through the phone, mixed with the sounds of gunfire and shattering glass.

A rival family had attacked the gallery.

"Get out."

Rocco hung up the phone and spat the words at me.

Before I could even process it, the car door was open.

He shoved me out.

"Rocco!"

I fell onto the hard concrete, staring at him in disbelief.

"Out!"

He didn't even look at me. He slammed the door shut and roared at the driver, "Back to the gallery! Now!"

The car sped away, leaving me on the cold ground. My purse was still inside. My scarf was still on the seat.

I don't know how I made it out of that garage.

The wind and snow cut at my skin like knives, but I couldn't feel the cold.

My heart was already frozen solid.

I walked aimlessly through the streets, hugging myself. People stared at the strangely dressed, dazed woman wandering in the storm.

I finally collapsed against the cold metal railing of a corner coffee stand. My body was shaking uncontrollably.

“Miss? Are you alright?”

A gentle voice sounded from above.

I slowly looked up, but another sharp pain in my stomach made me groan, and my body began to slide down.

“You don’t look well.”

A warm hand caught my arm, stopping me from collapsing.

A man stood before me. He wore a tailored camel coat and gold-rimmed glasses.

There was no pity or mockery in his eyes, only a clean, genuine concern.

“I’m taking you to a hospital,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he helped me up.

“No… I’m fine, thank you,” I struggled to stand on my own, but my legs were jelly.

His voice was soft but firm. “There’s a clinic nearby. Trust me.”

Half-supported, half-carried, I was brought to the nearest community clinic.

Waiting for the test results, I sat on a cold bench in the hallway, chilled to the bone.

The kind man brought me a cup of hot water.

His phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen and stepped away to take the call.

He kept his voice low, but I managed to catch a few words: ‘…data confirmed… wipe the traces… maintain surveillance…’

His tone was cool and professional, a stark contrast to the gentle man from moments before.

After hanging up, he walked back, his warm, scholarly demeanor perfectly restored.

“Miss Clara Vance?” A nurse approached… The doctor looked at the report in her hand, her expression serious. “…you’re three weeks pregnant…”

Pregnant… The word exploded in my mind.

My hand instinctively went to my still-flat stomach. There was… a life inside me.

Rocco’s child.

Just then, behind me, the large screen in the hospital lobby lit up with breaking news.

[BREAKING: Moretti Don Rocco Moretti Appears at Ambushed Art Gala, Protects His Woman!]

On the screen, Rocco was covered in gunpowder smoke. A gun in one hand, the other wrapped tightly around a trembling Vivienne. He stared into the camera, his eyes as fierce as a wolf’s, declaring to the entire underworld:

“Vivienne is a Moretti woman. Anyone who touches her declares war on the Moretti family!”

Watching that man, a monster for the woman he loved, I felt a strange sense of relief.

He was finally getting what he wanted.

That place, in his arms, was never meant for me.

And the pink diamond on my ring finger suddenly felt like the cruelest joke in the world.

It wasn't a proposal.

It was a brand. A mark of property.

I don't remember how I walked out of the hospital.

The kind stranger was gone, but he'd paid my medical bill at the front desk.

I went back to that empty, old apartment, my hand still unconsciously shielding my stomach.

Then, I took off the pink diamond ring and, along with the black card with its limitless credit, tossed them onto the table.

The priceless antique violin stayed behind as well.

I didn't need compensation. I just wanted to be free.

The only things in this place that were truly mine were in that small, simple suitcase.

I wouldn't take a single thread from this place.

From now on, I would earn everything myself.

My phone buzzed.

It was an email from my old professor in Austria.

"Miss Vance, I heard you passed the audition. When can you arrive? We look forward to having you."

I wiped my tears and typed my reply.

"Yes, Professor. I'll be there.

The day after tomorrow."