Chapter 84
Auri stood alone in the dim silence of her old apartment—walls she once called home, now echoing with the sound of her quiet, endless sobbing. The curtains stayed shut, turning day into a muted gray, and the untouched food on the kitchen counter marked the passing hours she refused to acknowledge.
Her chest felt hollow, as if everything inside her had collapsed at once. She stayed curled beneath her blanket, numb, her body heavy with exhaustion from crying until her voice cracked and her eyes burned. Every blink brought back the image of that email. Those words. That girl. That betrayal.
Her phone vibrated again.
Marcela:"Babe please answer me. I'm worried."
Another message.
Marcela:"Auri, please. Talk to me."
Auri only stared at the notifications piling up. She didn't have the strength—not to speak, not to explain, not to relive the heartbreak even one more time.
Her mind drifted to the memory she hated most—the moment she lost their daughter. Seven months. Seven months of dreaming, planning, loving. She remembered Dante staying strong for her, but maybe… maybe she had been too broken for him. Maybe she had pushed him away. Maybe her empty womb became a reminder of what they'd lost.
Maybe that's why he strayed.
Auri pressed a trembling hand over her stomach and sobbed all over again.
A harsh knock echoed across the small apartment.
"Auri! Auri, open the door—please." Dante's voice broke through the wood, thick with panic and desperation.
She stiffened under her blanket. She didn't want to see him. She didn't want to hear excuses. She didn't want to breathe the same air as him.
"Auri, baby, please…" His voice softened. "Just let me explain. Please let me talk to you."
Tears pooled again, hot and fresh.
Explain? What was there to explain when the truth had already sliced her heart open?
She stayed silent. Frozen.
The knocking grew louder, then weaker, then turned into the faint, heartbreaking sound of his forehead leaning against the door.
"I didn't cheat on you," he whispered hoarsely. "I swear to you, I didn't. That girl is lying. I would never—never—hurt you like that."
Auri clutched her blanket tighter, trembling. She didn't know what hurt more—the betrayal itself, or the fact that she still wanted to believe him.
But her heart… it had already shattered beyond repair.
"Go away," she finally whispered through the door, her voice barely audible but filled with pain.
"Auri—"
"Go. Away."
Silence.
A long, suffocating silence.
Then the sound of his footsteps fading down the hallway.
Auri curled into herself again and cried until her pillow was drenched.
Dante's jaw was clenched tight as he walked into the café where Celestine had agreed to meet him. His eyes were dark, colder than anyone in the room had ever seen.
Celestine smiled as if nothing was wrong. "Dante… you came."
He sat across from her, the tension radiating from him like heat. "Tell me exactly why you sent that email."
She tilted her head, pretending innocence. "You know why. I thought we were—"
"There is no we," Dante snapped, voice low and sharp. "There never was."
Celestine's expression faltered. "But you—"
"Don't twist my actions. Don't twist my words. And don't ever use my name to destroy her."
Celestine's eyes widened at the venom in his tone.
Dante leaned forward, hands pressed flat on the table, voice trembling with fury. "Listen to me carefully, Celestine. If you ever go near Auri again—if you send her a single message, a single lie, a single whisper meant to hurt her—you will regret it."
Celestine swallowed, shrinking under the intensity of his glare.
"I am warning you," Dante continued, his voice now cold as stone. "Stay away from her."
He stood, leaving her frozen in fear, unable to speak.
As he walked away, the weight of his own actions crushed his chest. Not because he had touched Celestine—he hadn't—but because even the presence of another woman had been enough to throw Auri into agony. Enough to break the woman he loved.
And that was a guilt he would carry for the rest of his life.
Back in her apartment, Auri stared blankly at the ceiling, her heart a silent, aching ruin.
This was what love had turned into—pain, loss, disappointment.
And somewhere deep inside her broken chest, she knew:
She couldn't forgive him.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
And she didn't know if she would ever piece herself back together again.