Chapter 1
Antonio found me clearing last night’s untouched birthday feast when he came home.
Yesterday was his birthday.
He said he would bring friends over for the celebration, so I took half a
day off to prepare.
da
I waited till midnight.
I wouldn’t have known he changed plans if I hadn’t seen Valda’s “best birthday party ever” post.
“Made the cake yourself?”
He smirked, smearing frosting across my cheek. When I nodded, he snorted, “No wonder it looks so janky.”
Back then, those words would’ve crushed me. I’d have argued until my face turned red.
Now? Not worth the breath.
Watching me scrub dishes, Antonio cleared his throat. “Grace, I brought you seafood pasta.”
“Saw it.”
He always did this–brought comfort food after ripping me apart.
It was our unspoken truce ritual.
“Let me heat it up.”
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He vanished into the kitchen before I could refuse.
Ten minutes later, smoke curled out.
Antonio stayed in the bedroom, so I had to turn off the stove myself.
Steam rose from the reheated pasta as his phone lit up on the counter.
A message from Valda.
“Thanks for last night, Tony Bear. Best night EVER.”
Before I could look away, his icy voice cut through, “Snooping through my stuff again?”
“I wasn’t- Ow!”
He shoved past me.
Scalding pasta splashed across my left hand.
Antonio shot me an exasperated look. “You’re hopeless.”
I gritted my teeth and followed him out the door to the hospital.
As soon as I got in the car, Valda’s custom sticker caught my eye: “PRINCESS THRONE VALDA’S SPOT!”
Antonio grimaced. “She… thought it’d be funny.”
“Kind of is,” I said flatly.
He kept glancing at me while driving.
“Aren’t you going to peel that off“?”
I blinked.
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Why would I?
Old Grace would’ve ripped it off immediately.
But now? I didn’t even care about Antonio himself.
Why would I care about the women around him?
“Just drive. I’ve got work soon.”
At my quiet urging. Antonio stepped on the gas.
We were one turn from the hospital when Valda’s custom ringtone blared -some breathy pop song.
“Tony… my head’s killing me…” Her whimper filled the car. “Last night’s champagne…”
Without a word, Antonio U–turned toward Valda’s apartment.
“Left some documents upstairs,” he lied, grabbing hangover pills I’d packed for him. “Be right back.”
Then he locked the car and went upstairs.
One hour. Thirty–three degrees Celsius. No AC.
Inside the sweltering car, I waited until I nearly passed out from dehydration. Antonio never came back.
Shattering the window with the emergency hammer, I crawled out lips
blue, shirt drenched. A security guard called 911.
That evening, Antonio found me eating takeout.
“Grace.” He stared at my bandaged hand. “Where’s my portion?”
