Page 109 of My Husband’s New Fiancée

They exchange a few brief sentences. Her voice stays low and controlled.

Valeria explains my request, listens to the response, gives a short nod, then hangs up.

“It’s fine. But she’ll be the one driving you to my safe house. She wants to make sure no one’s following you.”

I watch her, despite myself impressed by the extent of their precautions.

Before leaving the office, Valeria gives me her head of security’s number. I text her immediately.

Then, following her instructions, I head straight back to the penthouse to pack a bag.

The silence hits me the moment I walk in.

This apartment… doesn’t really feel like mine anymore.

Bianca moved in two months ago, claiming it was ridiculous to keep paying for the apartment downstairs when she was already spending most of her time here.

I didn’t fight the idea.

Just like I didn’t fight the wedding.

She kept saying it reassured the investors. The employees. The media. That the board needed a strong signal.

And me… I no longer had the energy to fight anything. Ever since Valeria disappeared, I’d been surviving more than truly living. So I let it happen. Day after day. Decision after decision.

While I drowned in my grief, Bianca settled into every empty space I left behind.

How did I confuse presence with comfort?

When did I stop defending what was left of the only woman I’ve ever loved?

My gaze slowly sweeps across the room.

Bianca left her mark everywhere.

Framed photographs. Carefully staged memories. Pictures where I’m smiling… without truly being there.

I look around, and I finally understand.

Little by little, she erased Valeria.

Replaced every trace. Every object. Every detail.

A few more weeks… and nothing of Valeria would’ve remained, and I would’ve been tied to Bianca for better or worse.

And the worst part is that I let her do it.

A shiver runs through me at the thought.

There’s no way I can bring Valeria back here.

Even though we lived some of our happiest moments in this place, it’s contaminated now—saturated with the memory of another woman.

I grab my phone, scroll quickly through my contacts, and dial a number.

“Dante... what do I owe the honor?” David asks.

“You still work in real estate?”