Fabiano did not look up from Sienna's plate. He was entirely absorbed in his task, passing her the parmesan as if she were the only other person present in the vast room. He had not registered a single word.

My hands trembled in my lap. I raised my voice, forcing the words through the tight knot in my throat, and repeated my intention to leave.

His head finally snapped up. A brief, genuine astonishment widened his dark, dangerous eyes.

Beside him, Sienna smirked over his shoulder, her lips curling around a forkful of pasta.

"Oh, let her go, Fabiano," she said, her voice loud and laced with contempt. "We are all so tired of these pathetic civilian tantrums."

The astonishment in Fabiano's expression vanished, replaced by a familiar, icy composure. He leaned back in his chair and let out a dark, patronizing chuckle.

"Still seeking attention over our little disagreement at the boutique?" he drawled, dismissing my declaration entirely. "Need I remind you that I generously permitted you to purchase that white dress today?"

I stared at him—the man who once held me in the dark and soothed my deepest fears. Now, sitting across from me, he had become the very source of them.

He dismissed me with a turn of his head, returning his focus to serving Sienna, ensuring her plate was arranged precisely to her liking.

In that moment, a hollow, deadening apathy washed over me, extinguishing the last embers of whatever I had felt for him. I felt absolutely nothing.

When dinner mercifully ended, Sienna wiped her mouth and announced her departure.

Fabiano immediately pushed his chair back, the wood scraping harshly against the tile, and retrieved his leather holster from the kitchen counter.

"I will see you home," he insisted, strapping the weapon over his broad chest. "The streets are not safe for a woman alone at this hour."

The hypocrisy of his words was a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. He offered her active, armed protection in the city, while I was confined to these rooms, this suffocating isolation he called safety.

The heavy front door clicked shut behind them, and the apartment was plunged into a sudden, profound quiet.

I did not hesitate. I walked straight down the hall to the master bedroom, dragged a chair to the closet, and pulled my heavy suitcases from the top shelf.

I dropped them onto the mattress. A methodical calm took over as I began to pack. I carefully folded my original design sketches—the only things that truly mattered—and packed the few modest items I had bought with my own saved money.

I was finally ready to abandon this place of gilded confinement.

An hour later, the unmistakable sound of the front door opening echoed through the house, followed shortly by the rush of water from the master bathroom shower.

I was just zipping up the final bag when the bathroom door opened. Fabiano emerged through a cloud of steam, a single white towel slung dangerously low on his hips, water droplets clinging to his tattooed torso.

He paused, his gaze dropping to the closed suitcases sitting on the floor by the door.

Without a word of concern, he walked over, completely ignoring the luggage, and stood closely behind where I sat. He leaned down, wrapping his heavy, possessive arms around my waist, and pressed a damp kiss to my bare shoulder.

"So," he murmured against my skin, his tone thick with arrogance, "how long will this little Syndicate-sanctioned business trip of yours be?"

The sheer arrogance was staggering; he did not even entertain the microscopic possibility that I was actually leaving him.

I closed my eyes, fighting back a phantom wave of grief. I vividly remembered the early days, when he used to photograph my rough designs with a look of genuine, awe-struck admiration.

But that man was gone, buried beneath layers of Syndicate cruelty and politics.

Without looking at him, I coldly took his heavy arm from my waist and shifted to the very edge of the mattress. I would no longer exist as a mere shadow in the architecture of his affairs.

Tomorrow, I would show him exactly what a ghost could do.

And he would never see it coming.