You left him at his lowest. No explanation, no warning. When he had nothing, no power, no money, no future, you walked away. Then he built everything without you. When he came back, he was not the same man. He was a Don now, feared more than respected. And he took you back, not gently, not kindly. He made sure you had no choice.

Everyone said he loved you more than anything. But love should not feel like this. Every night, he brought different women home. Their laughter carried through the halls, loud enough for you to hear. It was meant for you. You never reacted. You did not ask questions, did not cry, did not interrupt. You let it happen like it had nothing to do with you. That was what drove him insane.

One night he snapped. He grabbed you, pulled you close, kissed you like he was trying to force a reaction out of you. “Why aren’t you jealous?” he demanded, voice rough, eyes searching yours. “Why don’t you care?” But how do you explain that jealousy takes energy, anger takes strength, and even heartbreak requires something your body no longer has? Because while he was trying to hurt you, you were dying.

Your hand trembles as you stare at it. Blood again. The third nosebleed this morning, too bright against your skin. The doctor’s words echo in your mind. You might be lucky enough to see next spring, but with the seizures, the memory loss, the way your body is already failing, death might be the kinder outcome.

The mirror does not look like you anymore. Your skin is thin and yellowed, your eyes hollow and shadowed. You are young, but you look like something already fading. Your phone buzzes. The Don and his muse. Enzo Vieri and Isabella Marino spotted ring shopping.

You wait for jealousy, for anger, for anything. Nothing comes. Only a dull, constant ache deep in your bones.

You are not afraid of dying. You are afraid of the pain, of losing control, of disappearing piece by piece while still aware of it. You want relief, real relief, the kind your insurance will never cover.

And the only person who can give it to you is him. Enzo. Your husband.

The man who froze your bank accounts three weeks ago when he realized he could not control your heart anymore.

So now you have to go to him. Not for love, not for forgiveness, but to stand in front of him and ask for money. Enough to cover the treatment that will not save you, only ease it. Enough for the medication that will dull the pain and let you hold on to yourself a little longer.