I Crossed the World for Him, But He Chose Her Chapter 04
She froze. The smugness on her face twisted instantly.
Dante’s frown deepened, his gaze sweeping between me and Mia like he was assessing a sudden uprising.
“What’s going on with you two? When did this start?”
I met his eyes. My voice rang sharp and clear in the empty kitchen.
“Since four days ago, when she showed up uninvited and asked to share my itinerary, and I said no.”
So she’d come early. Not to see me. To punish me.
“That’s it?” Dante looked bewildered, as if he couldn’t fathom the concept of boundaries between women. “A little misunderstanding, and it’s come to this?”
It wasn’t just that.
For an entire year, Mia had been sabotaging every chance Dante and I had to be alone together. She clung to me constantly, demanding I go out with her, and every time I planned a trip to see him, she conveniently “needed my help.”
I bought matching couple’s rings. She bought one nearly identical and made a point of flashing it in front of Dante at a family gathering.
I wasn’t stupid. I’d planned to cut her off cleanly. But I’d underestimated her nerve, and I’d underestimated Dante’s willingness.
—
to let it all slide.
Mia rose slowly, eyes glistening with tears that looked well-rehearsed.
“Fine. I’ll leave. Since I’m clearly such an eyesore.”
She turned to go, but Dante shot to his feet, chair legs shrieking against the floor.
He stepped in front of her.
“You want her gone? Then I’m leaving too.”
“Then leave.” My voice was level, like I was signing an eviction notice.
Dante’s expression went blank. I had never asked him to leave. Not once.
It had always been me making concessions, holding this relationship together with whatever dignity I had left.
But I was done.
He didn’t move. His jaw was locked tight.
Mia seized the moment, grabbing his arm, her fingertips tracing the gun calluses on his wrist.
“Let’s go! She can’t treat us like this! If you give in now, she’ll walk all over you for the rest of your life! You’re Dante Rossi, not her lapdog!”
He let her pull him toward the door.
Only when the latch clicked open did I finally exhale.
—
I scraped the untouched soft-boiled egg into the trash. The yolk split open like a clot of congealed blood.
Then I started packing.
Later, as I was getting ready for bed, my friend Elena texted:
[Holy shit, Jo, look what I caught on camera!]
I tapped the video.
It was filmed at King’s Square.
In the frame, Mia’s arm was hooked tightly through Dante’s, her body practically molded against his, like any couple drunk on each other.
Maybe they’d been like this long before I ever knew either of them.
Elena’s fury vibrated through the screen: “This is disgusting! They’re humiliating you! How many times did you cover for him, take drinks for him, clean up after every lowlife who tried to stab him in the back?! And Mia, if it weren’t for you, she’d have been dumped in the river to feed the fish!”
Mia’s expression in the video remained ice-cold. Not a trace of remorse. “Did I force her to help me?”
“Shut up!” Dante snarled. He leaned toward the camera, his voice eerily calm, the kind of calm that came right before he killed someone. “Jo, we need to talk. You’ve got it all wrong. Tomorrow morning, I’ll come over. I’ll explain everything.”
—
Elena cursed a few more times before hanging up. I calmed her down,
then turned off my phone and fell asleep.
My flight was in six hours.
I woke at nine, ate something, and waited for Dante’s “grand
explanation.”
Eleven o’clock came and went. Noon passed. No sign of Dante.
I felt nothing. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out the door.
His breathless call chased me down, sirens wailing in the
background.
“Jo, I’m sorry. Mia has food poisoning. I had to take her to the ER to
get her stomach pumped…”
“Okay.”
Maybe he heard the finality in that single word, because his voice
softened, carrying a faint, commanding plea.
“Wait for me. I’ll make it up to you.”
I said nothing, hung up, blocked his number, and deleted his contact.
On the plane, I slept.
After we landed in Lyon, my landlady Mme. Garnier called, her voice
trembling.
“Miss Jo! There’s a young man standing outside your apartment! He
—
won’t leave! His eyes look like… like a demon crawled out of hell!
Should I call the police?”
I told her yes.
Getting into the taxi, I added, “Please do. If he won’t leave, have someone throw him out.”
Dante must have grabbed her phone.
His voice exploded from the speaker, deafening, tangled with wind and a barely restrained roar.