The silence that followed Marco's exit clung to me like a second skin. Even after the door closed, I could still feel the weight of his stare, the accusation in his voice, and the disbelief in his eyes. I tried to shake it off, but it followed me like a ghost—through the meetings, the hallways, and the endless clatter of office noise that suddenly felt too loud and too empty all at once.
Daniel had gone to meet with the board, leaving me alone in my office with nothing but the faint buzz of my phone on the desk. I didn't need to look at the screen to know who it was. Marco hadn't called again. He didn't have to. His silence was louder than any message.
I sank into my chair, running my hands through my hair. How had everything unraveled so quickly? Three days ago, he'd been looking at me like I was something he didn't know how to let go of. Now, he probably thought I'd been playing him all along.
The irony wasn't lost on me—that the lie he believed wasn't the one that actually mattered.
I stared at the city skyline through the glass, remembering the last morning I'd spent in his apartment—the way his hand had lingered on my waist, the quiet way he'd said stay. I'd told myself walking away was strategic and necessary. But maybe I'd underestimated how much it would cost me to pretend I didn't care.
There was a knock on my door. Sharp. Impatient. My heart stuttered.
"Come in," I said, forcing my tone steady.
The door opened, and there he was.
Marco De Luca—every inch of him controlled, lethal, breathtaking. His suit was immaculate, but his eyes told another story. They were darker than I'd ever seen them, the calm polished mask barely holding back the fire beneath.
He closed the door behind him, the sound echoing like a warning.
"Mr. De Luca," I said, because formality was safer than familiarity. "I wasn't expecting you."
"No," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "You never are."
He moved across the room slowly, like he was giving me a chance to explain before I even spoke. But I didn't. Because nothing I said would sound right.
"I came to talk about the project proposal," I lied.
His mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
I stood, matching his height, matching his calm even though my pulse was betraying me. "If you came here to make accusations, you can take it up with Daniel. I have nothing to say."
"Nothing to say?" he repeated softly, taking another step closer. "You disappear without a word, stop answering my calls, and when I finally see you—" His voice sharpened. "—you're in his arms. And you have nothing to say?"
I swallowed hard. "You saw what you wanted to see."
"Then tell me what I was supposed to see," he said.
His tone wasn't angry anymore. That was worse. Anger I could handle. But this—this quiet, aching disappointment—it cut deeper.
"It wasn't what it looked like," I said quietly.
His jaw tightened. "Then what was it?"
"I tripped," I said, hating how small it sounded. "Daniel caught me. That's all."
For a moment, he didn't speak. He just stared at me, eyes searching for something—truth, maybe. Or the pieces of it I wasn't willing to give.
Then he turned slightly, his hand sliding into his pocket. "You expect me to believe that?"
"You can believe whatever you want," I said. "It doesn't change what happened."
A beat passed. Two.
He looked around the office—the neat desk, the organized files, the cool light spilling across the floor—then back at me. "You look right at home here," he said. "Back where you belong."
The words stung more than I expected. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? For me to have my own life?"
"Don't twist this," he said sharply. "You know damn well that's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean, Marco?" I asked, finally letting my voice rise. "You wanted me close, but not too close. Honest, but not completely. What exactly do you want from me?"
He didn't answer. Not right away. He just looked at me—that same unreadable gaze that used to make me feel seen and stripped bare all at once.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. "I wanted you to trust me."
I laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. "You think this is about trust?"
He stepped closer again, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of his cologne—cedar, smoke, and something darker. "Isn't it?"
"No," I whispered. "It's about control. You don't like not having it."
For a second, something flickered across his face—the faintest hint of guilt, maybe recognition. Then it was gone, replaced by that same cold composure he wore like armor.
"Maybe you're right," he said quietly. "But at least I don't lie about who I am."
The words hit their mark. He didn't know how close he was to the truth.
I felt the burn rise in my throat, but I held his gaze. "If you're looking for someone to blame, fine. But don't rewrite what we had just because you're angry."
He studied me, his expression unreadable. "What we had," he repeated softly, like he was testing the past tense.
When I didn't correct him, something shifted in his eyes—a flicker of finality, the slow closing of a door.
He turned toward the exit. "Good luck, Isabella. With your work."
"Marco—"
But he didn't stop.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of it felt like an ending.
I sank back into my chair, my hands trembling. Outside, I could see him through the glass walls of the lobby—moving through the crowd with that same unshakable grace, the kind that made everyone else step aside without realizing why.
He didn't look back.
Daniel entered a few minutes later, a folder in hand. "He's gone?"
"Yes."
He studied me for a moment, then set the file down. "You should get some rest. You look like hell."
I almost laughed. "Thanks."
He hesitated, then asked quietly, "Do you want me to talk to him?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "If Marco De Luca wants to believe I betrayed him, nothing you say will change that."
Daniel nodded slowly. "Then maybe it's better to let him believe it. Keeps him predictable."
But I wasn't so sure. Because I knew Marco better than that. He didn't stay predictable when he was hurt. He became dangerous.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the ache of his absence, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't over—not by a long shot.