It was a pen.
Simple.
Matte black. Gold-tipped. Engraved at the base in small, quiet lettering:
"To remember who you were before the. silence."
A surgeon's pen.
A writing pen.
A weapon and a truth…wrapped in something he once loved before he forgot how to hold anything that didn't bleed.
I didn't buy it for pity.
I didn't buy it for love.
I bought it because I wanted to offer him something that didn't have strings, blame, or bruises.
Just memory.
I wrapped it in deep navy paper, tied with a slim black ribbon, and left it on his desk beside his untouched coffee.
I didn't wait for a thank-you.
I didn't expect one.
But I hoped.
God help me, I still hoped.
He didn't come down for lunch.
I didn't ask.
But when I passed his office that afternoon, the door was open.
The gift was gone.
The ribbon..unraveled on the floor.
And the box?
Broken.
Smashed in the corner like it had been thrown.
The pen lay across the carpet.
Bent.
Ruined.
Cracked where the gold met the barrel, like it couldn't withstand his hand, like even kindness shivered under his grip.
I stood there.
Frozen.
Silent.
Trembling.
And then I picked it up.
Held it in my palm like something dead.
No note.
No apology.
Just destruction.
That's what he did.
He ruined things that didn't ask for anything in return.
Later that night, I passed him in the hallway.
He didn't stop.
Didn't speak.
But I did.
"You didn't have to break it."
He paused…just for a second.
"You didn't have to give it."
I blinked.
And then he walked away.
Like it hadn't mattered.
Like I hadn't.
But I felt it.
Not anger.
Not hatred.
Disappointment.
Because for the first time in weeks…
I'd let myself believe he was changing.
And he'd shattered that hope.
Just like the gift.
I carried the broken pen back to my room in silence.
Each step felt like it echoed louder than the last.
I sat at my desk, laid the pieces out carefully..like a crime scene..and stared at them under the soft lamp.
Gold glinting under fractured black.
The inscription..To remember who you were before the silence…was still legible.
And now, ironic.
Because the silence was louder than ever.
Emilia entered sometime later, tray in hand.
She paused when she saw what I was doing.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
I didn't answer.
She placed the tray down gently.
"Madam… is everything alright?"
I turned to her. "How do you know when something's broken beyond repair?"
Emilia hesitated, then said, "When the person holding it stops trying to mend it."
I smiled bitterly. "Then he stopped a long time ago."
She didn't disagree.
That evening, I didn't go down for dinner.
I didn't show my face in any hallway.
I didn't even respond to Claudia when she sent a maid asking if I wanted to join her for evening tea.
I just sat with the broken pen in front of me like it could rewrite the last four months if I stared hard enough.
And somewhere deep in my chest, I felt something click shut.
Not snap.
Not shatter.
Just... close.
Like a door I'd been holding cracked open finally creaked into place.
I picked up the pen.
Carried it to the fireplace.
And dropped it in.
The flame hissed softly.
Then roared.
Outside, the wind had started again.
I opened the window.
Let it bite.
Let it sting.
Let it remind me that cold was survivable.
That I had been through worse than a man who didn't know how to receive gentleness.
And that I'd survive him, too.
Maybe even forget him one day.
But not yet.
Because I wasn't done making him regret it.
He knocked.
Just once.
Late. Near midnight.
I didn't answer.
Not immediately.
The silence stretched long enough that I thought maybe he'd walked away.
But when I opened the door, he was still there.
No suit.
No mask.
Just Alessandro.
Disheveled.
Tired.
And strangely… uncertain.
"I saw the fire," he said.
"I lit it."
His eyes flicked past me to the hearth where the last piece of the pen had turned to ash.
"I broke it," he admitted.
"I know."
"It wasn't about the pen."
"I know that too."
He stepped forward. Not inside…just to the edge. One toe over the threshold like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to cross.
"I don't know how to accept things I don't think I deserve."
I folded my arms. "Then you'll spend your life destroying everything that loves you."
He flinched.
But didn't retreat.
"I didn't mean to…"
"Do what? Humiliate me? Mock my kindness? Burn my gesture in silence?"
His lips parted.
Closed.
Then he ran a hand through his hair and said, "You make it hard to breathe."
"That's not love, Alessandro. That's guilt."
"I'm trying."
"You're failing."
He swallowed.
"What do you want from me?" he whispered.
I stared at him.
Long and hard.
Then said, "I wanted you to open a box and see a part of yourself that wasn't broken."
Silence.
Heavy. Dense.
Then…
"I saw it," he said quietly. "I just didn't believe it."
"Believe it now," I said. "Because next time I give you something, it won't be a gift."
"What will it be?"
"A choice."
I closed the door.
Softly.
Deliberately.
And this time…
He didn't knock again.
After I shut the door, I didn't move.
I stood there, fingers still curled around the knob, my forehead pressed to the wood as I listened for footsteps.
But there were none.
He didn't walk away.
He stayed.
I could feel it.
His hesitation, his conflict, his need to say something but his complete inability to do it.
Typical.
So I whispered, barely audible, "If you don't know how to love me, at least learn how to leave me alone."
Only silence answered.
Eventually, I heard him shift.
A breath. A step.
Then, finally, retreating footsteps.
Soft. Slow. Heavy.
He didn't slam his door when he returned to his room.
That wasn't his style.
He wounded with precision. Quiet. Controlled.
But even blades rust when left in the wrong hands too long.
I curled into bed without changing.
The fire had gone out.
The ashes from the pen lay like bones at the base of the hearth.
I didn't cry.
But I stared at them for hours.
Until they stopped looking like fragments of a gift…
And started looking like what was left of him inside me.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the villa, Alessandro sat at his desk with the lights off.
He had stared at the empty box in the wastebin for too long.
He'd picked it up.
Tried to fix it.
The ribbon had snapped when he first pulled it off. He'd thrown it in a moment of heat…an instinct.
He didn't know why.
Or maybe he did.
He didn't want to be seen.
He didn't want to be forgiven.
Because forgiveness required vulnerability.
And he had buried his so deeply, it only surfaced when it was too late.
He picked up the blackened ribbon from the trash and held it between his fingers.
He didn't cry.
But his hands shook.
And for the first time since he watched her walk down the aisle in silence…
He wondered what would happen if she stopped walking back.
What would be left if she truly gave up?
And if it was already too late to keep her from doing exactly that.