Chapter 16 Santino
I'm in a meeting with a supplier when the text comes through, the phone buzzing against the polished mahogany table. I glance down at the screen.
Liana: I left my laptop at your place. I need to pick it up.
I stare at the message for a long moment, reading it twice to make sure I'm not imagining the shift in her tone. It's different from her usual texts—no exclamation points punctuating every thought, no heart emoji at the end, no unnecessary enthusiasm. Just a simple, flat statement of fact.
Me: When?
Liana: Today, while you're at work. I don't want to bother you. Can you give me the keycode?
The keycode. Fuck, no.
She wants access to my apartment while I'm not there, wants to walk through my space alone and unsupervised. Every instinct I have, every carefully honed sense of self-preservation that's kept me alive in this business, screams that this is a terrible idea.
Me: I can bring it to you.
Liana: I'm at the port all morning. It's easier if I just pick it up.
The port? What the hell is she doing at the port? I stare at the message, trying to piece together what business she could possibly have in that part of the city, but nothing makes sense.
Me: Liana...
Liana: Unless you don't want me to have access to your place?
Aw… hell. She's got me cornered, and she knows it.
After last night, after the tears streaming down her face, after I made her feel like she was crazy for trying to be a good wife—I can't say no without looking like a complete asshole.
Without proving every terrible thing she's probably thinking about me.
I type out the codes, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel the muscle jumping.
Me: Building code is 4782.
Liana: Thank you.
That's it. Just "thank you" with no emoji following it, no excessive punctuation to soften the words. The formality of it sits wrong in my gut.
Something's wrong. I can feel it the way you feel a storm coming, that change in pressure that makes your teeth ache.
I try to focus on the meeting, nodding at appropriate moments as the supplier drones on about shipping schedules and container costs. But I can't concentrate on anything except the image of Liana alone in my apartment, moving through my space without me there to see what she's doing.
What is she doing there? The question circles my mind like a vulture.
The meeting finally ends at two o'clock, and I make it until two-thirty before I can't take it anymore. The not knowing is eating me alive.
"Bruno, I need to go," I announce, already reaching for my jacket.
He looks up from his paperwork, his expression confused. "Go where?"
"Home."
"It's two-thirty in the afternoon, boss."
"I know what fucking time it is." I shrug into my jacket with more force than necessary. "Handle things here."
"Boss, what's going on?" There's genuine concern in his voice now, the kind that comes from working with someone long enough to know when they're acting out of character.
"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." I'm already heading for the door, my stride long and purposeful. "Just handle it."
In the car, my mind spirals through every possible scenario, each one more absurd than the last. What has she done?
Did she move more stuff into my apartment, claiming more territory in that relentless way of hers?
Is she redecorating right now, hanging curtains or rearranging furniture according to some vision I never agreed to?
Maybe she adopted a cat. Or three cats. She seems exactly like the type who would get multiple cats without asking permission first, would show up with a carrier full of mewing animals and act like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.
Or maybe she's cooking, attempting some surprise dinner that she's probably burning at this very moment. I can almost smell the smoke alarm going off, see her waving a dish towel at the detector while something smolders on the stove.
Or—Christ!—what if she hired an interior designer? What if I come home to find my entire apartment painted pink, or covered in floral patterns, or transformed into something from a home decor magazine?
The drive from the warehouse to my building takes fifteen minutes in good traffic. Today, it feels like an hour, every red light a personal insult, every slow driver an obstacle deliberately placed in my path.
I pull into the underground garage and take the elevator up to the penthouse level, my heart beating faster than the situation warrants. I stand outside my door with the key in hand, trying to prepare myself for whatever chaos awaits on the other side.
I take a deep breath, forcing air into lungs that feel too tight. Whatever's on the other side of this door, I can handle it. I've handled everything else she's thrown at me so far—the invasion of my space, the rearrangement of my life, the constant disruption of my carefully maintained order.
I unlock the door and push it open, bracing for impact.
Silence greets me. Complete, total, unnerving silence.
I step inside cautiously, like I'm entering unfamiliar territory. "Liana?"
Nothing. No response, no sound of movement, no indication that anyone else is here or has been here recently.
The apartment is exactly as I left it this morning—every piece of furniture in its designated place, no cats weaving between the furniture, no smell of burning food wafting from the kitchen. No sign of her at all, no evidence of the tornado of chaos I'd been expecting.
I walk through the living room slowly, my eyes scanning every surface for changes. The kitchen looks untouched, the counters bare and clean. Everything is exactly where it should be, and that wrongness I felt earlier intensifies into something close to dread.
Did she even come? The question hangs in the air as I head toward my bedroom, my footsteps echoing in the too-quiet space.
I open the closet. Her garment bag is gone. The expensive designer piece that was hanging among my suits just this morning has vanished completely.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where it hung, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. Then I turn and walk to the bathroom, already knowing what I'm going to find but needing to confirm it anyway.
The counter that was covered in her products just yesterday—the creams and serums and mysterious bottles I complained about—is completely clear. All of it is gone, every single item removed as thoroughly as if they never existed.
The drawers I complained about being full of her things? Empty now. My drawers again, just like they were before she entered my life.
I open the cabinet under the sink, the one where she claimed space for her hair tools and styling products. Empty. Nothing but the cleaning supplies that were there before.
She took everything. Every single trace of her presence in my apartment has been systematically erased, removed with a thoroughness that feels almost surgical.
I walk back to the living room, looking around with new eyes and growing comprehension. No laptop abandoned on the coffee table. No oversized tote bag dropped carelessly by the door.
Nothing. It's like she was never here at all, like the past few days were something I imagined.
I should be relieved, shouldn't I? This is what I wanted—my space back, my apartment restored to the way it was before she invaded it with her chaos and her products and her presence.
But instead, something feels wrong.
I pull out my phone and text her, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts.
Me: Is something wrong?
The message delivers successfully. I watch it, waiting for those three dots to appear that would indicate she's typing a response. But her read receipts are off. When the hell did she turn those off? I can't tell if she's even seen it.
I wait five minutes, watching my phone like it might suddenly come to life. Nothing appears on the screen.
Me: Are you mad at me?
Still nothing. The silence from her end is deafening, more telling than any angry text could be.
Me: Liana, answer me.
Ten minutes pass, then fifteen, then twenty. I count them, checking my phone obsessively even though I know it hasn't made a sound. Finally, I can't take it anymore and I call her.
It rings four times—I count each one—and then goes to voicemail. Her recorded voice fills my ear, bright and cheerful as always.
"This is Liana! Sorry I missed you! Leave a message!"
The enthusiastic woman on the recording sounds nothing like the person who texted me this morning, nothing like the flat, emotionless words on my screen.
I don't leave a message. What would I even say?
I call again immediately. Straight to voicemail this time, which means she saw my first call and deliberately declined the second.
I try a third time, knowing it's futile but unable to stop myself. Voicemail again.
I'm about to call a fourth time when I force myself to stop, to lower the phone and take a breath.
What am I doing? I'm chasing her down like some desperate man who can't handle a woman's silence. Like someone with no self-control, no dignity, no sense of self-preservation. I can’t force her to pick up the damn phone.
I won't do this.
She's playing games—she has to be. This is another one of her chaotic moves, another manipulation in whatever plan she's running.
Remove all her stuff to make me notice the absence, ignore my calls to make me worry, create this void to make me feel it.
It's manipulation, pure and simple. Hot and cold, push and pull, the oldest tricks in the book.
I refuse to play along. I won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.
I pocket my phone and look around my apartment again, taking in the restored order with what should be satisfaction.
It's exactly the way I like it. Clean, organized, minimal. Every surface clear, every item in its place, every aspect of the space under my control again.