She Loved in Silence, Left in Silence Chapter 06

She Loved in Silence, Left in Silence Chapter 06

That night, Enzo called me dozens of times. The phone rang so much I finally just turned it off.

The next morning, my phone buzzed itself across my desk hard enough to rattle my coffee cup.

Mom flashed across the screen.

The second I picked up, her voice came through, breathless and giddy. “Vera, you sneaky little thing, how could you keep something this big from me! If Enzo hadn’t posted it on his Instagram story, I never would’ve known you two had been together for six years! He’s even wearing that old watch you gave him in high school. Stop fighting with him already-I’m having him over for dinner tonight!”

I sat there for a second, then scrambled to shut it down. “Mom, we’re not fighting. We broke up. Don’t get involved in this-he’s the one who decided I wasn’t good enough for his family. That’s why we broke up.”

I hung up and only then noticed the dozen-plus unread messages on WhatsApp.

Sofia had sent me a long screenshot.

Plus a wall of question marks.

I tapped the screenshot. It was Enzo’s story. The caption was a single line: Don’t fight with me. It

hurts.

The photo: us, junior year of college, hiking. He was looking at the camera. I was a blurry profile,

half-cut-out.

Below it, mutual friends had already racked up a hundred-plus likes and comments.

Michela’s was pinned at the very top: Wait, wasn’t Enzoni single? Wow, I had no idea you’d been together for so long.

Acid surged up my throat.

I pressed my hand against my stomach, hard.

Six years. I’d begged him for one shared photo. Just one. He’d had a thousand reasons every time.

The family would see. His parents would interrogate him. The arranged marriage talks would get complicated.

Now this thin little veil- this one secret post–was supposed to be a gift from him to me. Crumbs

from his table.

Yeah, that’s my piece-of-garbage ex.

I sent it to Sofia.

Her replies came back fast and brutal, each insult more vicious than the last.

I actually laughed.

I didn’t respond to Enzo’s story.

When I left work that evening, he was waiting at the bottom of my building. (For the record-yes, I have a regular, legal job. I’m not actually a family member.)

He was leaning against a lamppost by the planter, wearing the black trench coat I’d bought him, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. The second he saw me, he straightened up. Chin tilted up. Mouth curved in a self-satisfied little smile-like a man waiting for a stray pet to come trotting

back home.

His shoes crunched dead leaves underfoot.

I walked right past him. Straight toward the curb.

A black SUV rolled to a stop at the bottom of the steps.

The window slid down. Dante, one hand on the wheel.

“It’s getting cold tonight. There’s a blanket in the back.”

He pushed open the door, walked around to my side, took my laptop bag from me without asking, and opened the passenger door, his palm shielding the top of the doorframe.

“Sushi or Italian?”

I’d barely taken half a step before something clamped down on my wrist with brutal force.

Enzo dragged me toward him. “Vera. Are you blind? I’ve been standing here waiting for you for two hours!”

I shook him off. My voice was perfectly even. “I noticed. What do you want?”

He stared at me, chest heaving. “Fine. You win. I’m bowing my head first this time. Can you just

stop?”

I rubbed my reddening wrist and stepped back.

Suddenly his arm slammed against the passenger door, caging me between the car and his body.

The hem of his trench coat snapped in the wind.

“I posted the story, didn’t I? What more do you want from me? We’ve been together six years. You can’t just throw a tantrum and end it. And my parents-I’m working on them

“Working on what?” I cut in. “Are you going to fight your entire family? Are you going to take on the Corleones?”

He leaned closer, his warm breath against my forehead. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

I looked up at his self-righteous face, and a laugh nearly broke out of me. “Enzo. I’m not fighting you. I’m not throwing a tantrum. We ended at the hospital. You picked your family. You picked plausible deniability. You picked sitting next to Michela. You don’t get to look back now.”

The words hit something inside him. He suddenly screamed-the sound ripping out of him: “Vera! You’re carrying my child, and you have the nerve to get in another man’s car?”