The Don’s Eternal Loss Chapter 03

The Don’s Eternal Loss Chapter 03

That dress was a custom birthday gift from Michael.

As I walked into the ballroom wearing it, I was still picturing linking arms with him tonight and showing everyone what a perfect match we were.

I just hadn’t expected Isabella to style her hair into loose waves almost identical to mine either.

From a distance, she looked like a younger, fresher version of me.

Michael caught sight of her following my gaze, and he froze.

A moment later, he said, “She probably saw the design online.”

I stared at him, waiting for him to explain—why would a custom gown he gifted me have an identical design online?

He didn’t.

Instead, he took my arm and said in a placating tone, “She’s young and doesn’t know any better, don’t sweat it.”

I was five years older than her.

So I was supposed to be the mature one.

I was supposed to be graceful.

I was supposed to pretend I saw nothing, smile, and keep up appearances in front of this copy-paste version of myself.

Back home that night, I lay in bed, letting hot tears stream down my face and into my hair.

Over the next six months, we fought countless times.

The script was always the same.

I caught wind of something involving him and Isabella.

I confronted him; he denied it.

I lost my temper; he called me crazy.

Finally, he slammed the door and walked out, leaving me shaking and hugging my knees amidst the wreckage.

The next day, he came back with flowers and gifts to apologize.

And two days after that, the whole cycle repeated itself.

I thought that if I made enough noise, he would listen.

I thought that if I hurt enough, he would care.

He didn’t.

He just grew more impatient and more accustomed to my breakdowns.

He even asked me, “Vivian, have you ever thought about seeing a therapist?”

I had forty-nine entries in my notes app.

Every single day, every single incident, logged more precisely than our anniversaries.

What a joke.

I spent the entire night packing.

Michael didn’t come home all night either.

As the sky grew pale at dawn, I unlocked my phone and pulled up my chat history with Michael.

No text messages, just a wall of voice notes I had sent.

I tapped on the most recent one and listened.

“Michael, why aren’t you answering? Are you with her again? Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for you…”

By the end, my voice started shaking, turning into a sob like something was choking my throat.

I sat on the couch, listening to those voice notes one by one.

When the last one finished, I turned my phone face down on my lap and closed my eyes.

I suddenly thought of a college roommate.

Her boyfriend cheated, and she used to cry outside the apartment building day after day.

When I walked past and saw her back then, my thought was: Is it really that dramatic? He’s just a guy.

Now I had become her.

Or rather, I was worse off than her.

At least she cried right outside the apartment building.

At least that guy could hear her crying, could hear her bitterness and pain.

While I sat alone in that hollow manor, hurling sixty-second voice notes over and over into a dead-end chat window.

Even my pain was denied the basic courtesy of being played.

I stood up, planning to wash my face in the bathroom.

Passing the entryway, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Looking at the person staring back, she suddenly felt like a total stranger.

Mrs. Lombardi’s call came through right at that moment.

“Vivian, dear,” she said in a polite tone. “Are you coming over today?”

“Auntie made soup, that vegetable soup you love.”

“Michael’s coming back too.”

“And Bella will be here, helping out around the kitchen so she can take better care of Michael down the road.”

Take care of Michael.

Those four words felt like a needle slipping into my ear and driving straight down to my heart.

“Isabella… is at the house?”

In the twelve years we had been together, Michael had only introduced me to his parents twice.