The silence in my room was no longer peace. It was punishment. The kind that crept in slowly and wrapped around your chest like invisible rope. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the same four walls, but all I could see were the images Marcello laid out before me. My life, dissected like a crime scene, cataloged with the precision of a man who lived for control. I hated how well he understood me. I hated more that I wanted to understand him in return.
Sleep wouldn't come. Hunger had vanished. Time felt stretched thin and useless. Every second I spent inside this room was another second of wondering what came next. Marcello had said I would help him ruin the others. The ones who buried my lie beneath layers of wealth and silence. People I had not spoken to in years. People who had moved on as if nothing happened. But now I was the one chained to the consequences, forced to remember what everyone else had forgotten.
My phone buzzed. I froze. I had not heard it since the night I arrived. It sat on the nightstand, somehow untouched, as if Marcello wanted me to believe I still had a choice. The message was from an unknown number. No name. Just a short line. Be ready in fifteen minutes. My stomach flipped. I didn't need to guess who sent it. I stood, every part of me aching from tension I hadn't allowed myself to acknowledge. In the mirror, I saw a ghost. Pale. Hollow-eyed. But still standing. That had to count for something.
By the time I made it to the grand hallway, Marcello was already there. Dressed in black, eyes darker than the suit he wore, he looked at me with a stare that peeled away my skin and read the bones beneath. He offered no greeting. Just walked ahead and expected me to follow. So I did. Past rooms I didn't recognize, past doors that whispered secrets I didn't want to know. Then we stopped in front of a tall double door with bronze handles shaped like wolves. He pushed them open.
Inside, the room smelled of leather and paper. It was a library, but not the cozy kind from childhood fairytales. This was cold, calculated knowledge. Lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves and a single desk at the center, it reminded me of a courtroom. And I was about to be judged. He gestured to a seat, and I obeyed. Once again, no words. Just tension thick enough to choke on. Then he opened a drawer and pulled out a thick file. Not on me this time. Someone else. A name I recognized but hadn't thought of in years.
Michael Carrington. My breath caught. He had been the first to suggest the lie. The first to promise protection. The one who disappeared when the fallout began. Marcello opened the file slowly, letting me see every page. Every photograph. Every transaction. Every betrayal. I looked away. He placed a small recorder on the table and pressed play. Michael's voice poured from the speaker, arrogant and unrepentant, boasting about how we covered the story, how he convinced me to speak, how he never paid for what we did. The walls of the library seemed to close in.
"I want a meeting with him," Marcello said, eyes still locked on me. "And you're going to make that happen." I nodded, not because I wanted to, but because I knew refusal wasn't an option. Marcello was not asking for help. He was giving me a role in his play, and the stage was already burning.
My fingers trembled as I scrolled through old contacts, stopping at Michael's number. I had not spoken to him in over three years. The last message he sent was cold and sharp, a warning to stay silent and let the storm pass. But now, I was dragging him back into the fire, only this time, the flames were lit by Marcello's rage. I typed quickly, feigning casual interest. Hey, I'm in town for a few days. We should catch up. I stared at the screen before pressing send, then dropped the phone as if it had burned me.
Marcello watched from across the room, unmoving, unreadable. His presence pressed against my back, even when I couldn't see him. Minutes passed. Then my phone buzzed. I glanced at the message. Sure. Been a while. Name the place. My mouth went dry. That was too easy. I looked up, and Marcello raised one brow. He had expected this. Maybe he knew Michael better than I did now. Maybe he had planned it all down to the very minute. Maybe I was just a pawn in a revenge game I had helped trigger without knowing.
"I'll take you to him," I said. My voice was thin, weak, unlike me. Marcello stood and walked toward the window. He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he stared out as if he could already see the confrontation. "You'll do more than take me," he said finally. "You'll make him believe everything is fine. That you're still his ally. And when he trusts you, I'll be there." The words tasted bitter. I nodded again, but my chest was tight with dread. I was about to betray the man who once saved me from scandal to protect the one who now owned my fate.
The next day, the air was too hot, the sky too clear. I dressed in simple jeans and a blouse, not wanting to draw attention. Marcello said nothing as we drove together. His driver dropped us off a block away from the café. "Go first," he ordered, eyes never leaving mine. "I'll be watching." I walked with every step feeling like it would echo the past. Inside, Michael waited with that same smug grin I remembered. He stood and hugged me, too close, too long, and I fought the urge to pull away. His scent made my skin crawl.
"You look different," he said, motioning for me to sit. "Still beautiful, though. Maybe more now." I smiled tightly. "I guess time changes people." He laughed and ordered drinks, talking as if nothing had ever happened, as if we were old friends reunited by coincidence. I nodded when he spoke, laughed when I had to, and slipped in questions Marcello told me to ask. I hated myself for how easy it was to lie. But Michael didn't notice. He was too drunk on his own ego to see the noose tightening.
Marcello entered ten minutes later. Dressed casually, like any other businessman grabbing coffee, but every step he took toward our table felt heavy. Michael noticed him just as he reached us. "Sorry, this seat's taken," Michael said dismissively. Marcello smiled coolly. "I know. I'm here for her." Confusion twisted Michael's face, and then I watched it turn into recognition, and then something worse. Fear. He stood, glancing between us. "What is this?" he asked. "Old memories," Marcello replied. "And overdue consequences." The café fell into silence around us, and I realized everyone was watching. But none of them knew what was truly happening.
"Liliana," Michael said, voice hardening. "What the hell is going on?" I stood slowly, meeting his eyes. "This is the part where you stop pretending we didn't ruin lives and start answering for what we did." And then I stepped aside, letting Marcello take center stage, as planned.