Melissa didn't stop walking until the hallway ended.
Only when she reached the small, unused restroom near the storage wing did she finally lock the door behind her.
The click sounded too loud. Final.
She set the tray down on the sink with careful precision, as if it were fragile. As if she were.
Her hands were still shaking.
She gripped the edge of the counter and leaned forward, breathing slowly, deliberately—like she had been taught to do when panic threatened to swallow her whole.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Again. Again.
She's a toy. A pawn. A freaking distraction.
The word echoed without mercy.
Not a person, not a woman. A thing to be hidden. Managed. Disposed of.
Melissa pressed her forehead against the cool mirror.
Her reflection stared back at her—eyes too bright, lips pressed into a line so tight it hurt.
She had tried. God, she had tried so hard.
She had stayed professional. Invisible. Careful. She hadn't flirted. Hadn't asked for anything.
Hadn't crossed lines she didn't already feel guilty for thinking about.
And still, she was the problem.
A sound escaped her throat before she could stop it—small, broken.
She slapped a hand over her mouth, terrified someone might hear, as if grief itself were something she could be punished for.
Why did I ever let myself believe…
She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest. The tiles were cold, grounding. Real.
Unlike the illusion she had let herself live inside. She wasn't angry at Antonio.
That hurt the most.
She was angry at herself—for wanting, for hoping, for imagining a version of the world where men like him were allowed to choose women like her.
The Castellos didn't fall in love. They owned.
Melissa wiped her face roughly, standing up again.
She rinsed her wrists under cold water, forcing her pulse to slow.
When she looked at herself one last time, her expression was blank—composed, polished, perfectly acceptable.
By the time she unlocked the door, the break was already hidden.
No one would ever know it happened.
Antonio stayed seated long after Abuela left.
The office felt different without her—quieter, but heavier.
Like the walls themselves were judging him for not standing up, for not throwing the desk aside and following his instincts for once.
His fists were clenched on his lap.
He could still hear her voice.
I always win.
You'll only put her in more danger.
That was the cruelty of it. Abuela didn't need to raise her voice.
She didn't need to threaten him outright.
She was right.
Antonio leaned back and stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.
He had spent his entire life rebelling in small, controlled ways—women on the side, deals done his own way, rules bent just enough to feel like freedom.
But this?
This wasn't a rebellion he could afford.
If he fought, Melissa would lose.
That truth settled into him like a slow poison.
He thought of her standing in his office earlier—quiet, professional, eyes carefully averted.
He thought of the way she said his name like it mattered. Like he mattered.
He let out a breath that sounded too much like defeat.
Choosing silence was not cowardice, he told himself.
It was strategy. It was protection.
Still, the word love burned in his chest, unwanted and unmanageable. Loving her meant stepping back.
Loving her meant letting her believe she meant nothing to him—because that lie was safer than the truth.
Antonio stood and walked to the window, looking out over the city that bore his family's name in ways no map could show.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, to no one.
And somewhere else in the same building, Melissa straightened her spine and put her mask back on.
Neither of them knew the other was breaking.
And that—more than Abuela's threats, more than the arranged marriage—was what would haunt them both.
By the next morning, Melissa had perfected the absence.
She arrived early, as always. Hair neat. Clothes immaculate. Expression neutral enough to pass for calm.
If anyone had looked closely, they might have noticed something missing—but no one ever looked that closely at her.
Especially not him.
When she entered Antonio's office, she didn't hesitate. Didn't linger. Didn't brace herself.
"Good morning, sir," she said evenly, placing the files on his desk.
No softness. No pause.
No careful avoidance of his eyes—because she looked straight at him now, the way one colleague looks at another.
Antonio looked up too quickly.
"Melissa," he said, the name instinctive, unguarded.
"Yes?" she replied immediately.
That single word told him everything.
She was efficient. Polite. Untouchable.
She explained the schedule in a clipped, professional tone. Meetings. Calls. Deadlines.
Not once did her voice waver. Not once did her gaze flicker.
She didn't ask if he was alright. Didn't fill the silence.
Didn't soften the room with her presence the way she used to without even trying.
When she finished, she gave a small nod. "If there's nothing else, sir."
Antonio opened his mouth. Closed it.
"There is—" he started, then stopped himself.
She waited. Patient. Blank.
"No," he said finally. "That will be all."
"Very well."
She turned and left.
The door clicked shut, and Antonio felt it like a lock snapping into place.
She didn't avoid him for the rest of the day. That was the worst part.
She passed him in hallways without flinching. Answered his questions with precision.
Laughed softly at something Charles said in a meeting—an easy, unguarded sound he hadn't heard directed at anyone else before.
She had not withdrawn. She had removed herself and there was nothing he could say without breaking the very silence he had chosen.
That evening, Antonio stood beneath warm lights and crystal chandeliers, a glass of champagne untouched in his hand.
Chloe stood beside him, her fingers looped possessively through his arm.
She looked beautiful. Elegant. Perfectly acceptable.
The room buzzed with approval.
"There they are," someone murmured. "The future."
Antonio smiled when expected. Laughed on cue. Leaned in when Chloe whispered something trivial into his ear.
Every gesture was rehearsed. Every touch measured.
When a camera flashed, he angled his body just right, hand settling at her waist—not too intimate, not too distant.
Exactly what the family needed.
"Antonio," Chloe said softly, squeezing his arm, "you're very quiet tonight."
"Long day," he replied smoothly.
She smiled up at him, unaware—or unwilling to notice—the distance behind his eyes.
Across the room, Abuela watched. Satisfied.
"To the happy couple," someone toasted.
Antonio raised his glass.
The word happy tasted like ash.
He caught his reflection in the mirrored wall: composed, charming, every inch the Castello heir.
No one would ever guess that the man smiling so effortlessly had already lost the one thing that had ever made him feel human.
Later, when Chloe rested her head against his shoulder for the benefit of the room, Antonio's thoughts drifted—traitorous, relentless.
Melissa would have hated this place.
Hated the noise. The pretending.
She would have stood quietly at the edge, observing, understanding too much.
And she would never have touched him like this unless she meant it.
Antonio tightened his grip on the glass until his knuckles whitened.
Choosing silence had kept her safe.
But watching her disappear—piece by piece, inch by inch—was a punishment he hadn't prepared for.
And the cruelest part?
She was doing exactly what he had allowed. Letting go.