I said nothing in response to Vincent's question.

He stood by the bed, waiting for an answer. But I just stared at the blank ceiling in silence.

Vincent's phone rang, breaking the tense quiet.

"Vincent, my hand hurts so much..." Isabella's fragile, weeping voice came through the phone, audible even from where I lay.

Vincent's expression softened instantly.

"I'll be right there." He hung up, then looked back at me. "Think about what you did."

Then he left, just like he always did, abandoning me for Isabella.

The room was quiet again. I was alone.

About an hour later, the door creaked open.

Isabella walked in, her right hand wrapped in a thick bandage, but she looked triumphant.

"Sophia, how are you feeling?" she asked with faux concern.

I turned my head to look at her, my eyes flat and empty.

Isabella pulled up a chair and sat down, a sweet, poisonous smile on her face. "My dear, I want to tell you a story."

"I don't want to hear it."

"But this story is about you," Isabella's eyes glinted. "It's about why Vincent agreed to your father's request to discipline you personally."

My hand tightened on the thin hospital sheet.

"In high school, Vincent and I were boyfriend and girlfriend," Isabella began, her voice nostalgic. "We were so in love. He was so good to me, remembered everything I liked. He even said he would marry me after graduation. But then, something terrible happened..."

She paused, watching for my reaction.

"One night, Vincent was ambushed by a rival family. I took a bullet for him to save his life." Isabella gestured to her left shoulder. "It went right through. It nearly killed me."

"After that, Vincent was consumed with guilt. He said he would protect me and make it up to me for the rest of his life."

I remained silent, but my heart began to pound a frantic, painful rhythm against my ribs.

"I went to Europe to recover, and Vincent promised he would marry me as soon as I returned," Isabella leaned closer, her voice turning venomous. "We never stopped talking. So I told him all about how my poor mother had married into the Romano family, but that the cruel Romano heiress was treating her horribly, and how it was breaking my heart."

"Vincent said he would get revenge for my mother. That's why he came to your father and offered to discipline you himself." Isabella's smile was radiant. "Did you think Uncle Romano forced him? You're wrong, Sophia. Vincent asked for the job."

I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice. "What did you say?"

"Oh, and it gets better," Isabella took out her phone. "Did you know that every single time you two were together, it was being recorded?"

"What?"

"Vincent installed hidden cameras in the bedroom. He recorded everything," Isabella's smile grew more twisted, more malicious. "He said he was going to give the videos to me, to use as leverage to control you later."

My world started to spin.

"Are you shocked, Sophia?" Isabella stood up, triumphant. "Vincent never loved you. He was just completing a mission. Now the mission is over, and he's going to marry me."

She walked to the door, then looked back at me one last time.

"By the way, I've already made a copy of those videos. If you ever dare to cross me again, I'll post them all online for the world to see."

After Isabella left, I sat motionless on the bed for a long, long time.

Her words echoed in my mind, a torturous loop.

Vincent asked to discipline me.

To get revenge for Isabella.

He recorded every private moment we ever shared.

I suddenly threw off the sheets, ripped the IV from my arm, and bolted from the room.

Nurses shouted behind me, but I didn't hear them.

I ran out of the hospital and hailed a cab.

"Upper East Side, as fast as you can!"

I had to go to Vincent's mansion. I had to see for myself if what Isabella said was true.

Twenty minutes later, the cab screeched to a halt in front of the mansion.

I used my spare key to let myself in and ran straight to Vincent's study.

There was a hidden room behind the bookcase. I knew the code.

I punched it in, and a section of the wall slid open, revealing the surveillance hub inside.

Multiple computers, countless monitor screens, and various high-tech recording devices.

I sat down at the main computer and navigated the file directory.

In a folder labeled "S," I found an encrypted subfolder.

The folder name was: Sophia_Private.

My hand was shaking uncontrollably, but I clicked on it.

The screen filled with video files, all neatly organized by date.

From the very first night we were together to the very last, every single video was there.

I clicked on the first one.

The screen showed me and Vincent, tangled together in the sheets, every detail captured in crystal-clear high definition.

Including me, wrapped in his arms, whispering "I love you." Including every moment of my vulnerability, my trust, my complete and utter devotion.

My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the floor.

It was all true. Isabella was telling the truth.

Vincent really had recorded everything.

I started to laugh at how stupid, how hopelessly naive I had been. I laughed and laughed until the laughter turned into ragged, broken sobs.

Kneeling in front of the computer, staring at the damning video files, I took out my phone and dialed Don Romano's number.

"Father," I said, my voice thick with unshed tears.

"What is it? I thought you were disowning me," his voice was cold and surprised.

"I just have one question. Three years ago, did Vincent offer to discipline me?"

There were a few seconds of telling silence on the other end of the line.

"How did you know?"

I closed my eyes. "So it's true."

"Vincent offered me a two-hundred-million-dollar port project in exchange for the chance to take you under his wing," Don Romano's voice was mercilessly pragmatic. "I didn't know how you'd offended him, but I figured a little education wouldn't hurt you. So I agreed."

I hung up.

The last sliver of hope I didn't even know I was holding onto was gone.

Vincent got close to me, slept with me, controlled me—it was all for revenge. For Isabella.

I started to laugh again. Quietly at first, then louder and louder, a hysterical sound that filled the sterile, secret room.

I laughed until the tears came, until I couldn't breathe.

When I was finally spent, I wiped my eyes and stood up.

I went to the master bedroom and pulled out the suitcase I had already packed.

From the nightstand drawer, I took my passport and the plane ticket to Boston.

I took one last look around the room, this place I had once foolishly thought was my home.

In the living room, I picked up the solid gold lighter from Vincent's cigar box.

It was the first gift he had ever given me. I had thought it meant something special.

Now I knew it was nothing more than a hunter's mark on his prey.

I flicked it open. The flame danced in the dim light.

Then I tossed it onto the heavy silk curtains.

The fire spread with terrifying speed, devouring every memory, every lie, every ghost in this house.

I dragged my suitcase to the door and looked back at the room, now illuminated by the growing, hungry flames.

Goodbye, Vincent.

Goodbye, to the girl I used to be.

Half an hour later, the wail of fire trucks filled the affluent neighborhood.

I sat on my suitcase on the sidewalk across the street, watching it all unfold.

The flames licked at the night sky, turning it a hellish red.

Soon, a black car screeched to a halt. Vincent jumped out, his face turning to a mask of stone as he saw the inferno that was once his home.

He looked around frantically, his eyes searching, and they finally landed on me.

"Sophia!" he yelled, running toward me. "Are you hurt?!"

I just looked at him, silent.

"Why did you burn the house? Fine, burn it. Does it make you feel better now, Principessa?" Vincent’s voice was laced with a weary exasperation.

I remained silent, stood up, and started to walk away, pulling my suitcase behind me.

Vincent blocked my path. "Where are you going?"

"Home."

"I'll take you back to the Romano estate," he said, pulling out his phone. "Marco, get the car ready."

"No need," I said, stepping around him.

Vincent's phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, and his expression darkened further.

"I have an urgent meeting. Marco will take you home," he told me, his tone clipped and authoritative. "We'll talk about this later."

I ignored him and walked toward a cab waiting at the corner.

"Sophia," Vincent called out, his voice sharp.

I looked back at him over my shoulder.

"Stay home and wait for me. I have something I need to tell you." With that, he got in his car and sped off.

I watched his taillights disappear into the night and whispered to the empty air,

"We'll never see each other again."

I got into the cab and told the driver to take me to the airport.

On the way, I opened my mobile banking app, calculated the total amount of Vincent's money I had spent over the last three years, and transferred it all back to him.

Medical bills, living expenses, everything. It came to eight hundred and seventy-three thousand dollars.

Once the transfer was complete, I threw my phone out the window.

Watching it shatter on the pavement, I felt a profound wave of relief.

From now on, Vincent Romano would never be able to contact me again.

An hour later, the cab pulled up to JFK Airport.

I dragged my suitcase toward the departures gate.

"Ma'am, your flight is boarding in thirty minutes," a staff member informed me.

I nodded and sat down in the waiting area.

Through the large window, I could see several private jets on the tarmac.

One of them was preparing for takeoff. I saw Vincent's unmistakable silhouette walking up the stairs.

He must be heading to Chicago for that urgent meeting.

"Now boarding for Boston," the announcement came over the speakers.

I stood up and took one last look at his private jet.

Our story is over, Vincent.

On the plane, I chose a window seat.

As we taxied, I saw two planes on the runway, pointed in opposite directions.

One flying to Chicago, one to Boston.

Just like our lives. Heading on different paths, never to cross again.