Chapter Ten
Stella
My thumb grazes over Gianni’s contact photo one last time.
No new messages since the revelation. Of course, not. The woman’s voice echoes in my head: “Leave my boyfriend alone.”
“Enough.” I delete his number with a sharp jab, then grab my car keys from the counter. The metal bites into my palm as I squeeze them.
“Going somewhere?” Hannah peers over her coffee mug.
“To get answers.” I straighten my spine, channeling the strength Boyana always tells me I have. “And my things from his apartment.”
The drive to Gianni’s Bel Air penthouse feels different today. The familiar palm-lined streets that once represented my future now mock me with their pristine perfection. My engagement ring sits heavy in my purse — I still can’t stand to look at it, let alone consider putting it on.
Traffic crawls on Sunset, giving my mind time to catalog all the little warning signs.
“You knew,” I mutter to myself — to Boyana. “You tried to warn me something was off.”
My hands grip the steering wheel tighter as I turn onto his street. The security guard recognizes my car, waving me through without question. Probably the last time that will happen.
I park in my usual spot, but instead of the flutter of excitement I used to feel arriving here, there’s only cold determination.
Time to face whatever’s waiting inside.
A flash of movement catches my eye as I kill the engine.
A woman emerges from the building’s glass doors, her designer heels clicking against the pavement.
Tall, model-thin, wearing what looks like Prada.
The kind of effortless beauty that makes other women feel invisible.
For some reason, my eyes lock onto her, and even without being told, I already know. It’s her.
“I bet that’s her.” The words escape in a whisper. Not to myself, but to Boyana. She’s always present in moments like these, when my world tilts sideways.
The woman fumbles in her clutch, probably searching for her phone to call a ride. Her dark hair brushes over bare shoulders, catching the morning sun. Everything about her screams wealth and privilege — from her perfectly sleek bob to the red-soled Louboutins.
My eyes track upward, following the line of the building to the penthouse windows. Gianni’s probably up there right now, maybe watching her leave. Did he make her breakfast? Pour her coffee in the mug I bought him in Little Italy?
Movement behind the glass catches my attention — a silhouette passing by the window. Male. Tall. My chest constricts as I recognize Gianni’s familiar stride.
I sink lower in my seat, grateful for my car’s tinted windows. The woman’s finally managed to get her phone out, speaking rapidly into it while pacing near the entrance.
My heart stops as Gianni appears on his balcony wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, his tanned chest bare in the morning sun. He leans over the railing, waving down at her with that signature smirk I once thought was charming.
“Have a good day, bella! ” His voice carries clearly across the courtyard.
She blows him a kiss, and he pretends to catch it. The same stupid gesture he used to do with me.
My vision blurs red as I watch this intimate scene play out. They’re not even trying to be discrete. How many times has she been here? How many mornings did they share while I planned our wedding?
“Fucker!” I spit. The word tastes good on my tongue, matching the fury building in my chest.
I wait until her ride arrives and she drives away, then I yank my purse from the passenger seat and slam the car door. My heels strike the pavement with purpose as I march toward the building’s entrance.
The doorman’s eyes widen as I approach. “Miss Fermont—”
I blow past him, jabbing the elevator button repeatedly.
The elevator seems to crawl between floors. Each second that drags by only adds to my fury. By the time the doors glide open to his floor, I’m in a red rage.
I pound on his door, each strike echoing my heartbeat. The lock clicks, and there he stands, hair tousled, chest still bare, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin.
“Stella? Tesoro , what are you—?”
“Save it.” My voice comes out sharp as glass. “I just watched your little goodbye scene on the balcony.”
His face shifts — surprise, then calculation, then that practiced innocent expression I now realize I’ve seen too many times before. “Oh, that was just my trainer. We were doing—”
“Your trainer? Does she always leave wearing Prada and carrying a Chanel clutch?”
“ Cara , you’re being—”
“I talked to her yesterday.” The words slice through his excuses. “On your phone. When you were supposed to be at my charity event.”
He runs a hand through his hair — another familiar gesture that now makes my skin crawl. “ Tesoro , let me explain—”
“Don’t call me that.” I step closer, forcing him back. “How long?”
“What?”
“How. Long?” Each word drops like ice.
“Stella, you’re overreacting. This isn’t—”
“Three months? Six? The whole time we were engaged?” My voice rises with each question. “While I was planning our wedding? While I was looking at houses with you?”
I don’t need answers to these questions; she already gave them to me. I just want to watch him squirm as he lies.
His eyes dart past me to the hallway, checking if anyone can hear. Always so concerned with appearances.
“Keep your voice down. Let’s discuss this like adults.”
The patronizing tone in his voice ignites something in me. All those months of subtle manipulation, of making me question myself, of promises that now ring hollow — they crystallize into pure fury.
“Like adults?” I laugh, the sound harsh and foreign. “Was it adult to play us both? To let me plan a future while you were building one with her?”
His face hardens. “You’re making a scene.”
“Good.” I meet his gaze, refusing to let him make me feel small again. “I saw the real you today, Gianni. Finally.”
I watch his lips move, spewing excuses that sound rehearsed, practiced. Like he’s given this speech before to other women.
“You have to understand, cara . Men have certain… needs. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” His hands gesture expansively, like he’s explaining something obvious to a child. “These things happen in marriages all the time. The smart wives understand and look the other way.”
Is he fucking serious?
My stomach turns. “Is that what she does? Looks the other way?”
“Don’t be crude.” He straightens his shoulders, that familiar condescending expression settling on his face. “Besides, you’re being rather ungrateful considering everything I’ve given you. The lifestyle, the connections for your little charity events—”
The word “ungrateful” hits me like a slap. Heat rises in my cheeks as memories flash through my mind — all the times he’s lorded his wealth over me, used it to make me feel small, dependent.
“Let’s be practical about this,” he continues, reaching for his wallet on the side table. “I can make this… unpleasantness go away. Name your price.”
I stare at the leather wallet in his manicured hands, remembering how proud he was when he bought it in Milan. How he made sure everyone knew it was custom-made, cost a ridiculous amount.
The sight of it now, of him casually offering to buy my acceptance like I’m just another business transaction, crystallizes everything wrong with our relationship.
My voice comes out steady, cold. “You think you can just throw money at this?”
“Money solves most problems, tesoro . And let’s be honest — you’re not exactly in a position to walk away from what I offer. Your salary from that children’s thing you do—”
Something snaps inside me. How dare he belittle my career? Just last night, a man with more power in his pinkie than Gianni could dream of was telling me how important my work is.
“Don’t!” I cut him off, waving a finger in his face. “Don’t you bring my work into this, you… you spoiled little man!”
I stride past him into the apartment, heading straight for the master bedroom. My overnight bag still sits in his closet, half-unpacked from our planned weekend getaway. The cashmere sweater he bought me in Rome lies crumpled on his bed — probably knocked aside when she was here.
“ Tesoro , please. We can work this out.” Gianni trails behind me as I yank open drawers. “Think about what you’re throwing away. The villa in Tuscany, the connections I’ve given you—”
I stuff my clothes into the bag, not bothering to fold them. My hand brushes something silky — the La Perla lingerie he insisted on buying. I leave it there. Let her have it. I hope she gets a fucking yeast infection.
“Filthy bitch,” says Boyana.
“The board position at the foundation is still yours,” he continues, his voice taking on that persuasive tone he uses in business deals. “And the summer house in Positano—”
The bathroom yields more treasures — my expensive face creams, makeup, the silver-plated hairbrush he gave me for Christmas. Into the bag they go.
“What about the ring?” His voice rises slightly. “That diamond is flawless. It’s worth a fortune.”
I pause at my jewelry box on his dresser. The sapphire tennis bracelet, the diamond earrings, the Cartier watch — all his attempts to mark me as his property. I close the lid, leaving them behind.
“ Cara , be reasonable.” His footsteps quicken to keep up as I move through the apartment. “We can renegotiate terms. Maybe a bigger prenup settlement?”
The living room holds more evidence of my almost-life here — photos of us at the beach, my favorite throw blanket, books I’ll never read again. I gather only what’s truly mine, what I brought into this relationship.
My silence seems to unnerve him more than any words could. His offers grow more desperate with each step I take toward the door.
“The penthouse in Manhattan? It could be yours. Just yours. And the Swiss account I set up — I’ll double it.”
I zip my bag closed with trembling fingers, the sound cutting through Gianni’s endless stream of promises and bribes. The strap digs into my shoulder as I hoist it up, my muscles tight with anger.
“The yacht — I’ll sign it over to you today. And the summer house in—”
“Stop.” I whirl to face him, my free hand raised. “I don’t want your things. I don’t want your money. I don’t want you .”
His perfect features contort. The mask of charm slips, revealing something ugly underneath. His fingers catch my elbow as I turn toward the door.
“You’re making a mistake.” The silky persuasion in his voice hardens to steel. “Think about what you’re walking away from.”
I wrench my arm free. “I’d rather live in a cardboard box than spend another second pretending you’re a decent human being.”
“ Cara , please—” He steps between me and the door, hands spread in supplication. “Let’s discuss this rationally. Like adults.”
“Don’t let him trap you,” Boyana whispers. “He’s trying to wear you down.”
I shoulder past him, my bag swinging against his chest. The door handle feels cool under my palm, grounding me. Behind me, Gianni’s voice rises, taking on an edge I’ve never heard before.
“You think you can just walk away? After everything I’ve invested in you? You’re nothing without me. A charity case playing at being important—”
The lock clicks open under my fingers. I step into the hallway, my heels sinking into plush carpet. Each step feels lighter than the last.
The door slams behind me with a satisfying crack that silences Gianni’s stream of promises. The sound reverberates through the spacious hallway, each echo marking another step I take toward the elevator.
My hands shake as I press the down button, but my spine stays straight. The elevator arrives with a soft ding. I step inside, turning to face the polished doors that reflect a warped version of myself.
“I did it,” I whisper to Boyana. In the distorted reflection, I swear I catch a glimpse of her proud smile.
The elevator descends smoothly, each floor taking me further from the penthouse prison of Italian marble and guilt-wrapped gifts.
My fingers find the engagement ring in my purse — the massive diamond he bragged cost more than most people’s houses.
I pull it out, studying how it catches the light. Such a pretty cage.
The doors open to the lobby. Marco, the doorman, starts to rise with his usual greeting, but something in my expression makes him sink back into his chair. Ignoring him, I cross the foyer, my heart still racing with rage and adrenaline.
I pause at the brass trash bin near the entrance. The ring glints one last time before I drop it in, the soft thud of metal hitting paper oddly anticlimactic for such an expensive gesture.
Sunlight hits my face as I push through the revolving doors. The morning air tastes different — cleaner somehow, despite the LA smog. My car sits where I left it, but I feel miles away from the woman who parked it here twenty minutes ago.
It hurts, there’s no doubt about it, but I’d expected it to hurt more. What I mainly feel is a profound sense of relief.
“You dodged a bullet,” says Boyana.
“I know,” I whisper, dashing away tears as I head to my car. “Time to put it all behind me…”
I’m free.