I didn't cry when the call came. I just stared at the phone until the silence in the room felt heavier than my chest.
"She's sick, Isabella. Mama wants to see you."
Wants. Not needed. Wants. After all this time.
I laughed once, the sound bitter enough to sting my throat. "Now she remembers I exist."
Marco was still unconscious, the faint beep of the monitor keeping rhythm with the ache in my chest. He looked peaceful—too peaceful for someone who had nearly died because of me. His hand was wrapped in clean white gauze, his pulse faint but steady under the skin. I'd been sitting here for days, watching him fight his way back from the edge, and now I was supposed to leave.
Leave him. For her.
A knock came at the door. I didn't move.
Leonardo stepped in quietly, dressed in a dark shirt, sleeves rolled up, and hair damp as though he'd just showered. He had Marco's bone structure but softer eyes. Curious eyes.
"You got news," he said simply.
I didn't ask how he knew. People like Leonardo always knew.
"My sister called," I muttered. "Mother's sick."
He leaned against the wall. "Are you going?"
I hesitated. "She doesn't deserve it."
"Maybe not." His voice was calm and measured. "But sometimes forgiveness isn't for them. It's for us."
I glared at him. "Don't make it sound poetic, Leonardo. She turned her back when I needed her most."
"I know," he said quietly. "But maybe this is your chance to make her see what she lost."
I hated that he was right. I hated him a little for sounding like Marco too.
The road to Monaco stretched like an open wound through the mountains.
The sky was steel gray, the wind harsh. Every mile closer, I could feel my past peeling open again—old scars I thought had faded burning under the surface.
Monaco glittered like a mirage. Clean. Expensive. Silent. A kingdom built on secrets and smiles.
My mother's apartment overlooked the port—sleek white marble, gold accents, and a wall of glass that turned the world into a reflection. It looked like the kind of place where people pretended they were fine.
Miriam, my younger sister, opened the door. Her eyes were red, her voice small. "She's inside. She keeps asking for you."
"Does she even remember what I look like?" I asked, brushing past her.
"She remembers everything," Miriam said softly. "Even if she pretends not to."
She was thinner than I remembered. Fragile. Her hair had gone pale, her skin almost translucent. When she looked up from her chair by the window, she didn't smile.
"Isabella."
The sound of my name on her lips was like glass breaking.
"You came," she whispered.
"Don't sound so surprised," I said flatly. "I do occasionally honor invitations from ghosts."
She looked down, shame flickering across her face. "You're angry."
"I was angry," I corrected. "Now I'm just… tired."
She gestured weakly to the chair across from her. "Sit, please. I don't have much time."
"You had years," I said. "You didn't use them."
Her breath trembled. "I know I failed you."
I felt the words hit somewhere deep, where old wounds hid. I crossed my arms. "Failed me? You didn't fail me. You abandoned me. You let him touch me, and you called me a liar."
Her eyes filled with tears. "I was afraid."
I snapped. "You were the adult! I was a child! You were supposed to protect me!"
Her tears spilled over, but I couldn't stop. The rage was years old, and it had waited too long for air.
"You married him. You watched him hurt me, and you stayed. You made new children and a new home, and you erased me."
She reached out, her hand trembling. "I can't undo it. I wish I could."
"Then why call me now?" I demanded. "Because you're dying? Because guilt's eating you faster than the disease?"
Her face twisted in pain. "Because I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. I wanted you to know… I believed you. I always did. I was just too cowardly to face what it meant."
The words stunned me. For a moment, the room blurred.
"You believed me?" I whispered.
She nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I did. And I let you think I didn't because it was easier than destroying everything I'd built. I was weak."
The confession didn't bring peace. It brought fury.
"You could've saved me," I said, voice trembling. "You could've saved me."
She closed her eyes. "I know."
We sat in silence, the kind that suffocates. Outside, the sea roared against the shore.
"I didn't call you to ask for forgiveness," she said finally. "I called because I didn't want to die without telling you the truth."
I stood slowly. My hands were shaking. "Then you've done it."
"Will you ever forgive me?"
I looked at her—the frail figure, the eyes that once belonged to a woman I'd loved—and I felt nothing but a hollow ache.
"No," I said softly. "But I won't hate you anymore, either."
I drove back before sunrise. The highway blurred past through my tears, though I didn't remember crying. I just remember the weight of silence pressing on my chest.
By the time I reached the villa, Marco's doctor was leaving. He looked relieved.
"He's awake," he said.
The words nearly made me fall to my knees.
I ran up the stairs, heart pounding, and stopped at the doorway.
Marco was sitting up, pale but alive, his eyes finding me instantly. The smile that broke across his face was faint but real.
"You're here," he murmured.
"I had to be."
He reached for my hand, his grip weak but warm. "Where did you go?"
My throat tightened. "Monaco. My mother."
He frowned, searching my face. "She called you back?"
"Yes." I sat down, exhaling shakily. "She's sick. Dying."
He didn't speak. He just waited, the kind of silence that makes you feel safe enough to tell the truth.
"She told me she believed me," I said finally. "All those years… she knew. She just didn't stop him."
Marco's jaw tightened, his eyes darkening. "If she were standing here now—"
"I don't want revenge," I interrupted. "I just wanted her to hurt the way I did. But she already does."
He squeezed my hand gently. "You did what you had to do. You faced her."
"I thought it would make me feel free," I said. "It didn't. It just made me realize how much she broke me."
He leaned closer, his voice low. "Then let me help you rebuild."
For the first time since Monaco, I breathed.
But then the door creaked open.
Leonardo leaned in, his expression unreadable, eyes flicking from Marco to me. "You're awake," he said.
Marco nodded slowly. "Seems I am."
Leonardo's gaze lingered on my face a little too long before he added, "I'm glad she made it back in one piece. You should've seen her before she left—she looked like she was carrying the world."
I forced a thin smile. "I still am."
Leonardo smiled faintly. "You wear it well."
Marco's hand tightened around mine, subtle but deliberate. "That'll be all, Leo."
Leonardo hesitated, eyes meeting mine again. "Welcome home, Isabella."
When he left, the silence that followed was thick, electric.
Marco's thumb brushed against my knuckles. "Be careful with him," he murmured.
"Why?"
"He doesn't always know when he's crossing lines."
"Then maybe he's like you," I said quietly.
He smiled faintly. "No. I know exactly when I cross them."
The heat in his gaze made my pulse race, but I stayed still, the memory of Monaco pressing like a bruise beneath my ribs.
"Marco?" I whispered.
"Yes?"
"Do you ever think some things are too broken to fix?"
He looked at me for a long time, then said softly, "Only if you stop trying."
That night, long after Marco fell asleep, I stood by his window, staring at the dark sea. Monaco glittered faintly on the horizon—close enough to see, far enough to forget.
I didn't forgive my mother. I didn't hate her either. But something inside me had shifted, cracked open just enough to let the light in.
And as the wind pressed against the glass, I whispered to the dark, "I'm done being silent."
The words were small. But they felt like the start of something big.