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I admire her for more than that. For the loyalty to her family. For her business acumen, and her ability to attract clients and work with people. For her easy-going ability to put everyone at ease. For being the only sliver of normal I’ve had since I remember.
My dear Gio,
I didn’t accept your first proposal in January because I wanted it to be real. Not a business, not a convenience. Just us.
The second time, I accepted out of desperation. But I can’t go through with it, Gio. You have been generous, and I could easily get used to such a lifestyle. I could accept it and learn to be content.
But you will always think less of me, you will always negotiate, because after all, we have a deal.
You once told me that when things don’t go as expected with an acquisition, you cut your losses and move to the next venture.
I’m cutting my losses now. Not moving to the next venture, because I expect it to take a while to recover, but I can’t stay and hope.
Last night after you suggested I stay here was the last straw, confirming how you feel about our arrangement.
There was nothing wrong with what you were saying—I signed the deal after all—but there is so much wrong with what you haven’t been saying. The words I long to hear so much.
You’ve done nothing wrong. I have myself to blame for not speaking my truth sooner. I put my family and my financial needs first, and you couldn’t forgive that.
Please, I don’t blame you for what happened between us. You were always honest about your expectations. Your conditions. It’s me who breached our contract, so to speak.
Falling in love was never in the terms. I’m sorry about the mess with your family regarding the canceled wedding. I hope you can forgive me in time.
I love you, my beautiful Gio,
Mila
A glutton for punishment, I read the letter three more times. Each word slices through my chest with the precision of a surgeon. Give it to Mila not to be mad, or blame me for the way I ignored her.
When I finish reading for the fourth time, the gravity of my loss finally sinks in, carving a hole in my chest.
Massi comes back and leans against a pillar shading the terrace. “Do you want a drink?”
I shake my head. No amount of alcohol can numb or solve this.
“Thank God. I’m so jet-lagged I’d drop after one sip.” He sinks into a lounge bed and sighs. The bastard is enjoying his vacation. “So, I reckon the wedding is off. I hate tuxedos anyway.”
“Fuck you.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. I drop my head into my hands. My stupid brother chuckles.
“She really wanted to get as far as possible if she took my plane, but her family lives in your house and she manages your company, so I’m sure you can talk to her again.”
Is he taunting me right now? Because I would punch him in a heartbeat.
I stand up and punch the pillar instead. Wrong fucking move. The pain sears through my fingers up to my shoulder. Massi raises his eyebrow.
“Gio, you clearly care about her, so why are you acting like she is the nemesis in your story? Go, find her. Tell her you care. Or even better show her, because if you try to express it in words, you’ll fuck up again.” He chuckles.
“I hate you.” I hold my hand close to my chest.
“Feel free to aim your stupidity at me. It won’t make you feel better. There is only one person who can make the hurt go away—and I’m not talking about your hand.” He taps at his chest. “I suggest you pull your head out of your ass and admit you care.”
I do care. I do fucking care so much. Shit.
“And while you’re pondering your future, I’d get that hand iced.” He closes his eyes and turns his face to the sun.
Happy fucker with his beautiful family. Jesus, I can’t watch him. But he’s right, I need to ice my hand. Not the only thing he’s right about.
In the kitchen, I shove my hand into the freezer. Fuck, it hurts.
