My head snapped to the side as his hand struck my face. Pain bloomed instantly, sharp and hot. I tasted metal on my lip.
“This is your fault,” he said coldly, like nothing had just happened. “Because of you, I lost that deal. So fix it. Go back there if you have to. Smile, flirt—whatever it takes. And if not, you’ll hand over everything your company owns.”
My ears rang, but I forced myself to speak through the shaking in my voice.
“You’d really say that to me?” I whispered. “After everything? I lost our baby, Matteo. I can’t even— I can’t get pregnant anymore.”
For the first time, he looked at me properly.
No emotion. No hesitation. Nothing.
“So what?” he said coldly. “It’s just a baby. It’s not like I ever cared about having one with you anyway.”
My breath caught.
It felt like the world stopped for a second—like even the air forgot how to move.
Before I could respond, he already turned around and walked out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And that silence… that was the moment I broke.
My hands shook as I covered my face, and everything I had been holding in finally spilled out. Not quiet tears—real, ugly crying that came from somewhere deep I couldn’t control.
Because it wasn’t just pain anymore.
It was understanding.
The man I loved… wasn’t coming back.
Or maybe he had never been there at all.
And then, without warning, the memories came rushing in.
Back to the beginning.
When Matteo and I weren’t lovers, weren’t even close—just two people forced into a marriage built on competition and resentment.
We fought like it was second nature.
Deadlines, clients, proposals, even stupid things like office layouts—nothing was ever peaceful between us.
“You really think you’re better than me just because your father handed you half the company?” he once snapped during a meeting, voice cutting through the room.
I didn’t even hesitate.
“At least I didn’t get mine handed over on a silver plate,” I fired back. “You’re just scared I’ll actually outperform you.”
His chair scraped loudly as he stood.
“You’re impossible,” he growled.
“And you’re arrogant,” I shot back just as fast.
That was us back then—constant fire, no space for softness. Sometimes he’d grab my wrist when I tried to walk away. Sometimes I’d shove him right back. We didn’t know how to exist without clashing.
We were chaos pretending to be married.
But then, little by little, things shifted.
The shouting didn’t stop—but it softened.