No Longer Your Perfect Tool

At five in the morning, the soft click of the electronic lock jolted me awake. Only one person had a code to my apartment besides me.

Enzo.

I feigned sleep, listening as his footsteps drew closer. The mattress dipped beside me, and his scent enveloped me—the familiar smell of cedarwood cologne.

But it was different today. It was mixed with the cloying scent of roses. Stella's scent.

Bile rose in my throat.

I could feel his hot gaze on me. Warm lips pressed gently against my forehead, just like on that damn night. Just like he would do to any woman.

"Morning, baby." His voice was hoarse and sexy. And goddammit, my body still reacted to it.

I snapped my eyes open. The familiar line of his jaw filled my vision. The morning light, filtering through the blinds, cast shadows across the high bridge of his nose, his thin lips, and those deep, dark eyes I"d once let myself drown in.

"Enzo!" I twisted, trying to escape.

He was faster. A powerful arm pinned me to the bed.

"Miss me?" He leaned down, a low chuckle in his throat, and tried to kiss my lips.

I thrashed my head to the side. "Get off me!" I shoved at his chest.

But at five-foot-three, what chance did I have against a six-foot-three man? He easily captured my wrists, pinning them above my head.

"Still feeling shy, hmm?" he murmured. "Why didn't you text me goodnight? Was your phone off?"

What texts? I hadn't received any texts.

"You're getting bold, Vivian." He slid under the covers, caging me completely. "Shh, I know you're angry. Is this about last night?"

His hand began to wander.

"I brought you breakfast. Your favorite croissants, from that Michelin place," he cooed. "Or... would you rather I eat you first?"

His breath fanned across my ear. I thought of Stella's picture. Of them kissing.

His touch was a spark to gasoline. I went rigid, every muscle in my body screaming. "Don't," I choked out, the word barely a whisper.

"Don't what, baby?" Enzo's voice was a low, placating purr, but his eyes held a glint of impatience. "Don't be like this. I know you're upset about the ceremony. It was business, that's all. You know how it is."

Business. The word hung in the air, cold and sharp. He dismissed my deepest hurt so easily, as if it were just another line item on a balance sheet.

"By the way," he continued, his tone shifting to something more serious, his hand pausing on my waist. "You took that pill yesterday, right? We need to be smart about this."

I flinched, turning my face away from him, staring at the wall as if it could save me. The dam inside me broke. A single, hot tear escaped, then another, tracing a silent path to the pillow. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, trying to stifle a sob.

My tears seemed to genuinely throw him off. He stopped, his condescending smile faltering. "Hey," he said, his voice softening slightly. "What's this? Don't cry, Vivian."

He loosened his grip, trying to turn my face towards him. "What is this, Vivian? Tears? Now?"

"Don't do this. You're not some child throwing a tantrum over a stupid party."

A stupid party. That's all it was to him. The crystal shoes, the first dance, the promise of forever.

The dam broke. Tears streamed down my face, sudden and uncontrollable. Yesterday's humiliation and today's coldness crashed over me, a tsunami that swallowed me whole.

Enzo was clearly taken aback. He froze. "Look, I'm sorry. I drank too much last night." He set down his glass, taking a step toward me. "I shouldn't have said that."

I backed away. "Don't touch me."

His hand stopped in mid-air. Just as he was about to say something else, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and his expression changed instantly.

"It's business," he said, his voice clipped and all traces of false tenderness gone. He was already turning towards the door.

He paused, looking back at me with an expression that was part annoyance, part command. "We'll talk later. Pull yourself together, Vivian. This is beneath you."

The door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the vast, empty living room.

Half an hour later, Mia sent me a screenshot. Stella's private Instagram. A photo of a man's hand, wearing the Moretti family signet ring, resting suggestively on a woman's smooth thigh.

The caption: [Good morning, my King.]

Timestamp: twenty minutes ago.

Just then, I also received a selfie of Stella, pouting playfully at the camera, holding a man's arm.

The message below the picture was simple, and devastatingly cruel: "He says good morning. And thanks you for the training."

He left my apartment and went straight to hers. He hadn't even changed his shirt.

A cold, broken laugh escaped my lips, a bitter sound that fought with the fresh tears tracing paths down my cheeks.

I walked to the bar, picked up the whiskey Enzo had left behind, and downed it in one go. The liquor burned a fiery trail down my throat, but it was nothing compared to the inferno in my heart.

My phone buzzed. An apology text from Enzo:

[Stop, stop sulking, okay? I know what happened this morning was out of line—on your part.]

[But this business with the docks is critical. I had thought you, of all people, would understand that.]

He thought a simple apology would be enough. He thought I'd come running back.

As I tried to scrub the whiskey from the carpet, I realized how ridiculous my love for him was. But my traitorous tears kept falling, mixing with the spilled liquor, a stain that just wouldn't come out.

I finally gave up scrubbing. The stain was a part of the rug now, a dark, permanent mark. A reminder.

With a strange sense of calm, I stood up and walked to the closet. I pulled out a black suitcase, the one he'd given me for my birthday last year. Methodically, I went through the apartment, collecting every trace of him.

His spare razor from the bathroom cabinet. The worn copy of The Prince he kept on my nightstand. The expensive silk tie he'd left draped over a chair. I didn't smash them or tear them.

I folded each item neatly, placing it in the suitcase as if packing for a trip he would never return from.

Each object was a memory, and I was filing them away, closing the book on us, one page at a time.

He wouldn't even notice.

I checked the time. 24 hours until my flight.

Soon, I would be free.