At the very same time Jessica and Sam were whispering about Stella, the girl they were worried about was very much alive, annoyed, and regretting half her life choices.
Stella stood in the middle of a small living room, her arms crossed, and her long brown hair tied messily on top of her head. Her dark almond-shaped eyes were filled with irritation as she watched the man she once thought was her "dream guy" struggle with something as simple as sweeping the floor.
"Dumb," she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes so hard it felt like a workout.
Across the room, Tom–her so-called boyfriend jerked his head up, eyes flashing with offense. His jaw clenched tightly as he held the broom like a sword.
"You’re dumb!" he shot back. "As a woman, you should know how to do these things already. Consider yourself lucky I’m even helping!"
Stella blinked at him. For a moment, she wondered if he hit his head recently.
"Haha!" she gave a dry, sarcastic laugh. "What an ass. You act like you’re a little rich or something. Newsflash, Tom—you’re not. You live in your aunt’s house. And if you were rich, guess what? You still wouldn’t be sweeping the floor like this, dumbass, because you can’t even sweep the dust in the right direction."
Tom turned red in the face, like a tomato about to explode. "You’re always criticizing me. Maybe if you showed some gratitude—!"
"Gratitude? For what? For running away from home and ending up in this cheap place where there’s no Wi-Fi after 10 p.m.? For choosing you over everything else because I thought you were charming?" she shot back, placing a hand on her hip and glaring at him.
Tom looked like he wanted to argue, but even he knew that somewhere deep down, she had a point.
Stella wasn’t the type of girl who usually fell for someone easily. She was sharp, knew how to flirt, and always kept her heart guarded. But Tom had been different or so she thought. Back when they met, every girl talked about how good-looking he was. His dirty-blonde hair, lean figure, and those flirtatious grins could melt anyone. And when they started dating, people whispered about his perfect bed skills, about how wild and romantic he could be.
She had believed all of it. She thought she could fix the bad boy, soften his rough edges, make him hers.
What a joke.
The truth she slowly discovered? The more perfect someone looks on the outside, the more broken and selfish they are on the inside.
Tom was charming, yes. But also lazy, manipulative, and full of himself. He always expected her to do everything and called it "love" when he bought her cheap takeaway food and posted it online like he was spoiling her. And now, sweeping the floor badly once in a month made him feel like some prince?
"I must’ve been out of my mind," she mumbled under her breath.
"What did you say?" Tom snapped.
"Nothing," Stella muttered, walking toward the door. "I’m going for a walk. Don’t call me."
Tom shouted something after her, but she slammed the door shut.
As she stepped out into the narrow street, the breeze felt nice on her face. She needed air—needed space to think. Maybe it was time to face what she had run away from. Maybe it was time to stop fixing others, and start fixing herself.
Stella walked slowly down the quiet street, her steps unsteady and thoughts heavier than her feet. She stared at the cracked pavement, blinking back the sting in her eyes. She didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not for them. Not after everything.
But still... she missed them.
Her mom. Her dad.
She hated them, didn’t she? For forcing her into that marriage arrangement with Leonardo.
It still made her chest feel tight when she remembered the fights. The way her mom cried and her dad yelled, trying to convince her it was the best decision for her. "He’s powerful," they had said. "He’ll protect you, you’ll live like a queen."
But she didn’t want to be a queen in a cold palace. She wanted love..
And then her best friend, the one she trusted, whispered rumours about him in her ears.
"He’s old, Stella. Old and cruel."
She had shown her blurry, zoomed-in photos of Leonardo standing with different women at parties, wearing cold expressions. And then she said the worst part:
"He killed his tenth wife. That’s why he’s always alone."
Those words repeated in her mind like a curse.
Her breath hitched.
Of course, she ran away. She didn’t want to be wife number eleven.
She thought she was being smart, saving her own life.
But now, weeks later, with her back aching from this cheap bed and Tom screaming at her over a dirty kitchen floor... she wondered. Was it really true?
Stella shook her head, trying to brush off the heavy thoughts that were crowding her mind. She told herself again—she made the right decision. At least Tom wasn’t a killer. At least he didn’t have ten dead wives behind him. Even if he was loud, lazy, and sometimes annoying, he was still... human. Normal.
Just then, strong arms wrapped around her from behind.
"Babe, don’t walk alone," Tom said, his breath warm against her ear as he hugged her tightly.
Stella blinked and looked over her shoulder, her expression softening just a little. She forced a small smile.
"Okay," she said quietly.
Tom grinned and leaned closer, whispering, "Let’s go to bed."
Stella nodded. "Mhm..."
She didn’t love him like she thought she would. But for now, she told herself this was better. Safer.
Even if deep down, a small voice inside her whispered: Are you sure?
***
"Are you sure?" Giovanni asked slowly, his brows furrowing as he looked through the detailed report in his hands.
"Yes, Boss," his assistant replied, standing straight, trying not to let the tension show.
Giovanni’s eyes moved over the page again. The report was about Pablo, the head of the Mexican mafia. Apparently, Pablo had recently attempted an ambush on Leonardo and failed.
Giovanni leaned back in his chair, thoughtful.
"Pablo attacked Leonardo?" he repeated, voice cold.
"Yes, sir. With snipers and ground forces. But Leonardo survived... unharmed. Well, mostly."
Giovanni narrowed his eyes, flipping the report to the photo stapled at the end. His sharp gaze landed on a girl– wounded, bleeding, but alive. Leonardo was carrying her in his arms, his expression unreadable, but the urgency was clear. She had been shot instead of him.
"She took the bullet?" Giovanni asked.