Seven Years Just a Friend

Dante had a disturbing habit. Every time we made love, he had to take intimate photos of me with his phone.

That night, he was especially insistent, coaxing me into a completely nude picture.

Afterward, face flushed and breath still ragged, I nudged him playfully.

"What's so fascinating? You haven't looked away from that photo once."

Dante didn't even look up, his thumb stroking the screen.

"Isabella gets back from Europe tomorrow. This is the last time for us, so of course, I need a final entry for the archives."

My body went rigid. I stared at him, my voice barely a whisper. "What does that mean?"

Dante finally tilted his head, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

"What do you think it means? The woman I've been chasing for seven years is back. It's time to tie up loose ends. That means no more of this... with you."

"Aria, we're solid friends. After seven years of this, you didn't actually start thinking you were going to be my wife, did you?"

With that, he tossed the torn silk nightgown onto my face.

"Alright, knock it off with the wounded look. It's pathetic. As a friend, I'll keep your photos safe."

"You can still come over and help me blow off some steam whenever Isabella isn't around."

It was then the truth hit me with the force of a bullet: Dante had never loved me.

I was just a friend.

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1

My body trembled uncontrollably, my palms turning to ice. My eyes burned as I asked, "Dante, just a friend? After seven years, you feel nothing for me at all?"

If he felt nothing, then why was he so possessive? Why did he wipe out a rival's entire territory just because one of their men laid a hand on me?

Why did he brand my skin with marks only he could see and coax me into photos meant for his eyes alone?

I thought ours was the kind of love that didn't need words—a bond forged in the silence of our world.

His sharp, impatient voice was my only answer.

"Aria, I thought you were different from those other women, the clingy ones."

"You're sensible. You never cause trouble. You even agreed to let me take those photos. That's the only reason I've kept you around this long."

"You know damn well how obsessed I am with Isabella, so who are you playing the victim for? It's not like I denied you my body. Haven't you had your fill these past seven years?"

So it was true. When you're in absolute agony, you can't even cry.

A wave of humiliation so vast it was suffocating washed over me, and a hollow, bitter laugh escaped my lips.

Dante and I had grown up together amidst bloodshed and violence. I was quiet by nature; he was the most ferocious wolf in the family.

He feared nothing, yet for me, he'd always saved a flicker of softness.

When someone from a rival family dared to touch me, he led his men to flatten their entire operation.

Gradually, I grew accustomed to his suffocating protection. But that protection twisted into something possessive a few years ago, when he fell for the socialite Isabella at a banquet.

The day Isabella left for her studies in Europe, Dante waited for hours at the airport, only for her to walk away without a single backward glance.

After that, he grew despondent, lost his edge, and nearly got himself killed in a firefight.

I was the one who risked my life to save him, dragging him from an enemy ambush and taking a bullet meant for him.

Then came the round-the-clock care.

One night, that care bled into something else, right there on his sickbed.

When I woke up that day, I saw an empty box of cigars on the nightstand. He didn't say a word, but the despair in his eyes was gone, replaced by an even fiercer possessiveness over me.

I thought he had finally let her go.

I thought he had finally chosen me.

But I understood now. It had all been wishful thinking.

The one thing you can't have in your youth becomes a ghost that haunts you for a lifetime.

Even after seven years, Dante had never forgotten Isabella—the one that got away.

The moment she was back, he couldn't wait to draw a line in the sand.

He even had to make sure I understood I was just his... friend.

A bitter laugh escaped me.

The humiliating tears I'd been holding back finally streamed down my face. I scrambled into my clothes, my movements clumsy with rage, then spun around and slapped Dante hard across the face.

"Dante, those seven years of love? To hell with them. From now on, you can chase your goddess. And don't you ever touch me again!"

"Aria, what the hell is wrong with you! You—"

Behind me, Dante started to yell, but I couldn't stand the sight of him for another second. I bolted out the door.

Back at my house, I calmly dialed my father's number.

"Papa, I'll do it. I agree to the arranged marriage with Luca from Chicago. You can set the date. The sooner, the better."

But a second later, the door to my room was kicked open.

Dante’s thunderous expression filled the doorway.

"Aria, what arranged marriage?"