My mother-in-law’s final wish was simple—she wanted one last trip to Hawaii, to bask in the warmth of the sun before her time ran out.

But her son, Vincent, didn’t see it that way. He thought I was manipulating her, using her as an excuse to drag him on a vacation he didn’t want.

So, out of spite, he refused to grant her dying wish.

I begged him. Pleaded. Swallowed my pride and all the hurt his accusations brought. After relentless persuasion, he finally relented.

I thought, at last, I could give Lucy the happiness she deserved.

But on the day we were set to leave, Vincent was nowhere to be found.

And that same day, Lucy suffered a heart attack. She passed away with only me by her side—never getting to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin one last time.

And then I saw it.

A picture. Vincent, tagged at a luxury resort with his ex. The caption from her read: Thank you for abandoning your job to take me on this trip. You’re the best.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even confront him.

I just packed my bags and left.

And this time? Vincent found out about the truth and begged me to stay.

1

I wasn’t surprised that Vincent had bailed on Lucy and me again—because of Alessandra, of course. His ex, the one who had always come first.

But I never thought he’d do this to his own mother.

Even now, I bet he still believed I had used Lucy—his own mother—to manipulate him into one last trip. He probably convinced himself that I was the villain in this story, the scheming wife who preyed on Lucy’s sympathy to get my way.

But this trip was never about me. It had been Lucy’s wish all along.

I had always known.

To him, I was the cold, calculating one—the woman who had gone to any length to marry him. Meanwhile, Alessandra was everything I wasn’t: warm, gentle, lovable. The kind of woman he wanted to hold close.

But I no longer cared how Vincent saw me.

I had done my best to give Lucy even a sliver of happiness in her final hours. I had done more for her than her own son ever did.

I owed Vincent nothing.

After burying Lucy’s ashes, I returned to the hospital to gather her things.

As I stepped into her room, I broke down.

Lucy had been nothing but kind to me. She had been warm where Vincent had been cold. And yet, I had failed her. I hadn’t been able to convince her son to come on that final trip.

Vincent never even visited her here. He probably thought I was exaggerating her condition—another ploy to get him to come to me.

The room still smelled like her, as if time had frozen the moment she left it.

I cried harder than I ever had before. But I didn’t let myself drown in sorrow. Instead, I packed up every trace of her, erasing her presence from the space she had spent her final days in.

Before leaving, I turned back one last time. The room was spotless, empty. As if no one had ever lived here.

"Goodbye," I whispered.

As I carried Lucy’s belongings toward the first floor, I collided with someone—someone tall, solid.

Vincent.

And in his arms, nestled against his chest like a delicate princess, was Alessandra.

He didn’t even look at me as he walked past.

But then Vincent’s gaze flicked down to the bag in my hand, and he finally stopped.

His voice was devoid of concern, laced only with impatience. “What are you doing here, Giovanna? Shouldn’t you be with my mom, taking care of her?”

Alessandra smiled at me, her grip tightening around his arm like she was staking her claim. “Hey, Giovanna, you don’t mind Vincent coming home late, do you? I had the worst stomach cramp, and Vincent said this hospital was the closest, so he brought me here.”

A stomach cramp. Really?

I watched as Vincent gently set her down, his touch careful, his attention unwavering. He stopped a nurse, asked where they could go, his voice warm with concern.

As if she were something precious.

Something fragile.

Something worth cherishing.

And that was when it hit me.

I remembered the time I had suffered from acute gastroenteritis. The pain had been unbearable, twisting my insides, leaving me weak and fevered. I had called Vincent, hoping he would come.

His response? “Sounds like you just need a pill and some rest. Don’t call me unless you’re actually dying, okay? I’m busy.”

At the time, I had told myself he was just being a man, just… bad at handling emotions.

Turns out, he could be caring. Just not for me.

A strange sense of rage washed over me, sharper than the grief, more potent than the heartbreak.

Before I knew it, the words slipped past my lips.

"Vincent, as you wish, I’m divorcing—" I hesitated, then let out a bitter laugh. “I’m breaking up with you.”

I almost said divorcing, but what a joke. Vincent and I had never even been officially married.

No papers. No legal ties. Just a meaningless, cheesy wedding on a beach, no pastor, no vows that mattered.

Vincent barely reacted. He barely even heard me. He probably thought I was just playing the jealous wife again.

“Don’t pull that crap with me,” he snapped. “I’m not in the mood for games.”

I inhaled sharply, gripping the bag in my hands, my nails digging into the fabric.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t even know.

Lucy had been diagnosed with a heart condition and early-onset Alzheimer’s two years ago. Her heart, fragile from age, was a ticking time bomb—one we couldn’t defuse, only hope would never go off.

She had once asked me, her voice trembling with longing, “Giovanna, baby girl. Where is my son? I want to see Vincent. Where is he?”

She called him. No answer.

She called again. Still no answer.

Vincent probably thought those calls were my doing. That I had manipulated her into dialing his number. He had a way of twisting everything—every word, every plea, every truth—until it fit the narrative he wanted to believe. And that narrative always cast me as the villain.

I wiped away the last of my tears. My voice was steady when I finally spoke.

"I’m leaving."

I grabbed Lucy’s things and made my way to the door. But before I could take another step, Alessandra’s saccharine voice stopped me.

"Are you mad at me, Giovanna?" she asked, her tone dripping with faux innocence. "You don’t have to act so hurt when Vincent and I did nothing wrong."

“Don’t listen to her,” Vincent scoffed. "She always puts on a face when she doesn’t get what she wants. Right, Giovanna?"

I didn’t respond. I didn’t even look at them. Their arrogance, their smugness, the way they spoke like I was some bitter, jealous wife throwing a tantrum—it was suffocating.

Just as I reached the door, Vincent’s hand shot out and grabbed mine.

"Can you just stop with the act?"

I turned to face him. There was something in his expression—hesitation, maybe even concern—but I didn’t know if it was real or just another illusion I had once mistaken for love.

"Don't lie to me anymore." His tone was sharp, irritated.

When I didn’t react, his patience snapped. "Alessandra told me Lucy was doing just fine. So drop the act already. We had all the time in the world to go to that damn Hawaii."

He exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair as if this entire conversation was exhausting him.

"I’ll clear my schedule next week," he said. "Then we’ll take my mom to Hawaii, okay?"

For the first time, it almost sounded like he was trying. Like he was offering some kind of olive branch.

The audacity of his words ignited my fury. With a cold sneer, I shot back, "Then you're just gonna have to die. meet Lucy in heaven, beg for her forgiveness, and then see if she still wants to go to Hawaii?"

2

"Are you insane, Giovanna?" he snapped, fury blazing in his eyes. "I will not allow you to talk this kind of crap about my mother. Do you understand?"

He acted like he cared about Lucy—as if he truly loved her. But the truth was, when Lucy was on the verge of death, he was still off at some resort with that whore, Alessandra.

I pulled my hand from his grasp.

I was done talking to him. "Forget about Hawaii. You should stay and take care of your delicate lover like you always do. She doesn’t look like she’s suffering from just a stomach cramp. I’m worried that if you linger here too long, she might end up in the morgue."

His brows furrowed, like he couldn’t quite understand why I was so fired up—why I wasn’t falling into place like I always had before.

I used to dream about this moment. Used to hope that one day, Vincent would chase after me, that he would coax me, beg me to stay.

Now that it was finally happening, I didn’t want it anymore. I saw the worst of Vincent, and whatever hope or love I once had for him was long gone.

I turned and walked out the door.

Behind me, Alessandra’s voice rang out, her tone laced with feigned remorse. "It’s all my fault. Don’t be mad at Vincent. I shouldn’t have told him to take me to the resort. I just… I thought maybe you were exaggerating about Lucy’s condition to get Vincent away from me."

Exaggerating?

Exaggerating Lucy’s condition?

Before I even realized what I was doing, my hand shot out.

The sharp crack of my palm against Alessandra’s face echoed through the hallway.

Silence fell.

And for the first time, neither of them had anything to say.

Vincent’s face twisted with rage as he shoved me aside, his hands immediately going to Alessandra, checking her with the kind of care I had never once received from him. Then he turned on me, his voice sharp and accusing.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Why did you slap her? If you’re angry, take it out on me. Don’t go after her."

I didn’t bother responding to him. Instead, I locked eyes with Alessandra.

"Watch your mouth," I warned, my voice steady, unwavering. "Next time, it won’t just be a slap. Do you hear me?"

But Alessandra didn’t back down. She tilted her head, defiance flickering in her gaze.

"So you’re really not going to admit it?" she sneered. "Are you so desperate to make Vincent feel sorry for you that you’d go so far as to fake his mother’s illness? You’re such a hypocrite."

A cold shiver ran down my spine.

Fake it?

So all this time, she thought I was lying about Lucy’s sickness.

But what about Vincent?

Slowly, I turned to him, searching his face for some sign of recognition, some sliver of guilt, some proof that he didn’t believe the same.

"Do you think I faked it too?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Vincent didn’t say a word.

His silence was deafening.

"Where the hell is Lucy?"

He didn’t believe me. He had never believed me.

If only he had bothered to come upstairs, he would have seen Lucy’s pills scattered across the table. If he had come home just once, he would have found her lying in bed, too weak to even lift her head.

But he hadn’t.

Because he thought I was lying. Just like Alessandra.

I thought of Hawaii again. Lucy’s only wish had been to go there with her son—to feel the sun on her face one last time. But even that small wish, Vincent had refused to grant.

It wasn’t until I begged him for three days—offering him exactly what he wanted, a clean break from me—that he finally agreed.

"Take Lucy to Hawaii, and I’ll leave you."

That was the deal.

And even then, he bailed on us.

When had Vincent changed? When had he become this cold, selfish man?

Or maybe I had just been blind to it all along.

I had known him since we were kids. Back then, he was the son of a mafia family, and I was just the daughter of their maid.

My mother had always warned me to stay away from him.

"He’s different, Giovanna."

But he wasn’t different. He had been just a boy back then, same as me.

Then my mother had her accident, and everything changed. Lucy took me in, raised me as her own. And when we came of age, she told Vincent to marry me.

"She’s a good girl," Lucy had said. "Simple. Kind. Far better than those girls you bring home."

And because Lucy still controlled the family business, Vincent had no choice but to obey.

That was how our shabby wedding happened.

No grand ceremony. No real vows. Just a meaningless, halfhearted union that had never been legally filed.

Lucy had kept pressing for us to get the marriage license, but Vincent had always brushed it off. "Wait," he would say. "I’m too busy."

And so Lucy and I waited.

To this day, Vincent and I were still nothing on paper.

And when I finally asked him about it, he had sneered at me, his voice filled with nothing but disdain.

"Don’t dream about getting that piece of paper with me. I won’t marry an evil, selfish woman who would do anything to worm her way into the family her mother used to work for."

I had wanted to argue, to tell him I wasn’t evil or selfish. But before I could, he had silenced me with a final, brutal truth.

"Alessandra’s back. And I don’t think she’d be thrilled about marrying a divorced man. So, end of story—I’m not getting a license with you."

Of course.

His bride had always been Alessandra.

She was the only one he had ever truly loved.

And because of Lucy and me, Alessandra had once rejected his proposal. Vincent had never forgiven me for that.

I looked at Vincent now, and it hit me. The sweet, sincere boy I had once known was gone, replaced by a man I no longer recognized.

Vincent opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Alessandra let out a soft whimper.

3

"Ouch, that pain’s back… my stomach… it hurts so much."

And just like that, his attention snapped back to her.

She collapsed into his arms, and he caught her immediately, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

Alessandra’s eyes welled up with unshed tears, her lips trembling as she looked at Vincent, waiting for his comfort. And he gave it to her, so easily, so instinctively, like it was second nature.

And for the first time in years, I thought back to when I had first met him—how gentle he had been when I fell off my bike, how he had carried me home with that same quiet concern.

But now…

It had been so long since he had looked at me that way.

Vincent turned to me, his eyes full of disgust. His voice was cold, emotionless.

"Apologize to Alessandra."

"No." The word came out sharp, firm, unwavering.

His expression flickered—surprise, then immediate disdain. "No?"

"That’s right. No." I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze head-on. "I don’t owe her an apology. Her mouth was filled with lies. She deserved worse."

In the past, I had always lowered my eyes in front of Vincent. Not just because I loved him, but because I feared that if I didn’t act soft enough, he would hate me even more.

But now, I saw it clearly—no matter what I did, no matter how much better I was than Alessandra, I would never win. He would never see me for who I was.

So why the hell should I back down now?

I wasn’t going to grovel just to please Vincent anymore.

Vincent lifted Alessandra and settled her back into her seat with the kind of care I had never once received from him. Then, straightening, he turned to the bodyguards and ordered, "Escort Miss Costa to the spare room."

The guards stepped forward, their grips firm as they forced me toward the small room adjacent to where Vincent and Alessandra were sitting.

Vincent followed, his voice low and full of warning. "Apologize before I make you."

"No," I repeated, my voice steady.

For years, I had been the pushover. The woman who bent over backward to keep them happy, who swallowed every insult, every dismissal.

But not anymore.

Alessandra let out a soft, mocking laugh. "It’s fine," she said, her voice syrupy sweet. "Giovanna was never the type to apologize."

Vincent exhaled, shaking his head like I was some unruly child he had to deal with. "You’re too gentle sometimes," he told her. "Giovanna’s in the wrong here. She needs to apologize."

Then he turned to me, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "If you don’t apologize today, I guess it’s only fair I return the favor for all the shit you’ve put others through."

He gestured to one of the bodyguards. The man stepped forward, his hand raising—ready to strike.

"Wait," Alessandra suddenly interrupted. She stood and took a step toward me, her smile saccharine. "Vincent, your bodyguard might be too rough for this. Let me handle it myself. That way, Giovanna won’t hold it against you or your men."

And then, without a second of hesitation, she slapped me.

Hard.

Twice.

And with the third, she kicked me to the floor.

Her nails scraped across my face, sharp enough to draw blood. The sting burned, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

"Oh dear," Alessandra gasped, feigning innocence. "I forgot to cut my nails. Now Giovanna’s face is all ruined. I’m so clumsy."

She turned to Vincent, pouting like a child who had made a tiny, innocent mistake.

Vincent didn’t miss a beat. "She owes you. Don’t feel sorry for her. It’s not like she hesitated when she hurt you."

The bodyguards released me, and I crumpled to the floor.

Vincent stepped toward me, his voice cold as ice. "Now, will you apologize to my babe?"

I lifted my gaze, slow and deliberate, and when I spoke, my voice was quiet, lethal.

"Go fuck yourself, Vincent."

His eyes darkened.

"I hate you."

That was it.

The last shred of patience I had for him was gone.

When I looked at Vincent now, there was no love, no lingering hope. Only hate.

For the first time, he looked taken aback, his brows furrowing slightly, as if he couldn’t quite process what he was seeing.

"Why do you always have to be like this?" he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Acting so damn stubborn and innocent, even when you're wrong. Too proud to admit it, huh, Giovanna?"

He sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple like I was nothing more than a headache. "I already agreed to take Lucy to Hawaii. So why are you making a scene now? Didn’t I make you my wife? Didn’t I take your hand at that wedding? Didn’t I allow you to sleep in my house when you’re nothing but a maid’s daughter?"

His voice faltered, just for a second. Then he shook his head, his tone turning sharp again.

"Why would you hurt Alessandra when you already have everything you need?"

Everything I need?

Vincent had spent years making sure everyone knew—how Alessandra was the one he loved, how I was just some pathetic woman who couldn’t let go.

To hell with everything I need.

I didn’t need a damn thing from him.

My fingers curled into fists, my nails digging into my palm as I pressed a hand to my stinging cheek.

"There is no us anymore, Vincent," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I’m done. I’ve made up my mind. We’re over."

He didn’t believe me.

The disbelief in his eyes was immediate, followed by a sneer.

Without hesitation, he pulled out his phone, his fingers moving quickly over the screen. He turned on the speaker, making sure I heard every word.

"Find out where my mother is being treated," he said coldly. "Tell her to come pick up this crazy bitch or I’ll throw her out myself."

The line crackled. Then a voice answered.

Calm. Detached.

"Mr. Costa… your mother already passed away. The day you told me to tell Giovanna that you wouldn’t be joining her for the Hawaii trip…"