The pastry is stale again. I break off a corner of the croissant Marco left on the kitchen counter and watch it crumble between my fingers. Four years. Four years of waking up to whatever he grabbed from the discount rack at the supermarket on his way home from her place. Because that's what this is. That's what it's always been. I dump the pastry in the trash and pour myself coffee that's already cold. Through the window of our tiny apartment, I can see the morning sun turning the Florence skyline golden. Graduation day. The day we're supposed to leave for our trip—the one Marco planned six months ago, the one he promised would be "just us, finally." My phone buzzes. *Running late. Meet you at the station. Can't wait! xx* I stare at the message. He's been "running late" every morning for four years. I know exactly where he is. The Tiffany box is still on the counter where he left it yesterday. I flip it open even though I know what's inside—saw him hide it in his jacket three days ago, watched him practice his speech in the bathroom mirror. The bracelet catches the light, delicate silver links with a tiny heart charm. For a moment, I let myself imagine he bought it for me. For graduation. For four years of supporting him through architecture school while I worked double shifts at the café. For every time I told him his designs were brilliant. For staying. Then I see the engraving on the heart. *S.* Not G. Not Giuliana. S. For Serena. My best friend. The one who's been "helping him with his portfolio." The one he brings gourmet breakfasts to—I've seen the receipts from that expensive café near her apartment, the one that makes fresh cornetti every morning. I close the box and set it down carefully, like it might explode. My birthday was two weeks ago. Marco gave me a gas station gift card and apologized for being "broke." I used it to fill the tank of his car. The apartment is quiet except for the sound of my breathing. Four years of quiet. Four years of making myself smaller, softer, easier. Four years of pretending I don't notice. I check my phone. The train leaves in ninety minutes. I shower and dress in the outfit I bought specifically for this trip—a sundress Marco said he loved, though now I realize he barely looked at it. I pack my bag. I make the bed. I water the plants Marco always forgets about. I do everything right, like I always do. The station is chaos—tourists and students and families all converging for the holiday weekend. I push through the crowd toward our platform, dragging my suitcase behind me, scanning for Marco's dark hair. I find him at the platform entrance. With Serena. She's laughing at something he said, her hand on his arm. She's wearing the bracelet. He's carrying two cups of expensive coffee and a bag from that café—the one he's supposedly too broke to afford. They don't see me yet. I watch him lean in close to whisper something in her ear. Watch her smile that secret smile I used to think was reserved for girl talk and shared confidences. I used to think we were friends. I check my phone one more time, hoping for a message I know won't come. Some explanation. Some acknowledgment that I exist. Nothing. I walk up to them. "Hey." Marco startles. "Gia! You're early." "I'm exactly on time." I look at Serena. She's wearing a new dress too. "Hi, Serena." "Hi." She doesn't let go of his arm. "Marco was just telling me about the hotel. It sounds amazing." The hotel. The one Marco said he booked for us. "Did you get the tickets?" I ask Marco, keeping my voice steady. He blinks. "Tickets?" "For the train. You said you'd book both tickets." Something flickers across his face. "Oh. Shit. Gia, I—" "You forgot." "I've been so busy with finals, I—" "You forgot to book my ticket." Serena's smile doesn't waver. "It's okay, Marco. These things happen." The announcement board flickers. Our train—the last one heading south today—starts boarding in five minutes. "I can try to buy one now," Marco says, but he's not moving. He's not even looking at me. He's looking at Serena like he's waiting for permission. "There won't be any seats left," I say. "It's a holiday weekend." "Maybe you can catch the next one?" Serena suggests, her voice honey-sweet. "Tomorrow?" Tomorrow. After they've spent the night in the hotel room Marco booked. The room that was supposed to be ours. Marco finally looks at me. "I'm really sorry, Gia. I'll make it up to you." He won't. We both know he won't. The final boarding call echoes through the station. "You should go," I tell him. "You'll miss the train." He hesitates for exactly three seconds. Then he picks up his bag. Serena loops her arm through his and leans in as they walk away. I'm close enough to hear her whisper: "Thanks for keeping him warm for me." They disappear into the crowd. I stand on the platform until the train pulls away, watching it shrink into the distance. Then I pull out my phone and scroll to the contact I haven't called in two years. The one labeled *Father*. Don Vittorio Marchese answers on the first ring. "Giuliana," he says, and I can hear the surprise in his voice. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" I watch the empty tracks where Marco's train used to be. "The marriage you proposed," I say. "To the Salvatore heir. Is the offer still open?" Silence. Then: "Yes." "I accept. On one condition." "Name it." I think of Marco's face when he talked about his dream internship—the one with Dante Salvatore's architectural firm, the one he's been chasing for years. "I want you to destroy Marco Russo's career before it starts."