The Cost of Her

Alora’s POV “You said you were going to pick me up, but I can’t find you anywhere!” I screeched into the phone, clutching it like it was his neck instead. Marco laughed. “Relax, babe. I’ll text you the name of the bar…just grab a cab. I had to pick up my friends first.” I stopped in front of the hotel doors, my heels already killing me. “You’re picking up your friends while your girlfriend is stuck here in a short dress and heels? You know I don’t even know my way around!” “Alora,” he drawled, voice lazy and sweet in that annoying way. “You’ll survive. Just come, okay?” The line went dead before I could curse him. I stared at my reflection in the glass door, lip gloss perfect, curls in place, dress tighter than common sense. I’d flown in from Boston that morning after finishing my degree at Northeastern University, where my aunt had insisted I enroll after my father said he couldn’t afford to send me anywhere outside Italy. She said a change of city would make me grow up faster. Maybe it did, or maybe it just made me better at pretending. I was supposed to go straight home from the airport to the villa, like a good girl. Instead I was on my way to the party my boyfriend invited me to. I’d missed him too much to say no. Maybe that was my first mistake, wanting to sacrifice it all for love, even for those who promised to stay but didn’t act like they wanted to. My mother died the day I was born, at least, that’s what they told me. Sometimes I wondered if my father blamed me for it, the same way I blamed her for leaving. Maybe that’s why I never learned how to love softly. It always had to hurt first. So, if my father ever found out that his beloved daughter had lied about a delayed flight just to sneak out and see her boyfriend, he’d lose his mind. He’d kill me first, then bury me beside his rules. But Marco was different, or at least, I used to think so. He was warm, familiar. We’d met before I left Italy four years ago for school. Back then, he swore distance wouldn’t change anything between us. I’d checked into a small hotel near Verona City Square, sent my dad a fake text about “flight delays,” and called Marco the second I dropped my luggage. Stupid. The taxi stopped outside a sleek bar with dim purple lights and a crowd spilling onto the street. The sign above it read The Velvet Room, Marco’s choice, obviously. The kind of place that reeked of perfume, alcohol, and bad ideas. I paid the driver and stepped out, the cold air biting my legs. My heart thudded, not from excitement, but from something closer to dread. Inside, the bar pulsed with bass and laughter. I scanned the crowd, brushing past strangers who smelled like sweat and cigarettes, until I spotted him near the counter. Marco. Leaning back, laughing, a beer in one hand, a girl in glitter leaning on the other. My stomach twisted. He hadn’t seen me yet, but his friends had. They nudged him, grinning, and when he finally turned, that boyish smile, the one that used to make my world stop, barely flickered. “Alora!” he called, waving me over like I was late to some party. I walked to him, trying to hide the anger simmering beneath my skin. “You made it,” he said, sliding an arm around me. His cologne hit me first, then the faint smell of beer. “Barely,” I muttered. “You could’ve waited.” He smirked, eyes glinting. “Come on, don’t be like that. You look beautiful.” The compliment felt rehearsed. His friends’ stares burned into me, some mocking, some curious. He led me to their table, and I thought he’d sit beside me. Instead, he pulled out a chair across from him, like I was some stranger who’d just joined them. “Everyone, this is my girlfriend, Alora,” he said, flashing that sheepish smile that used to make me melt. I managed a smile that barely reached my lips. “So this is the girl?” one of them asked, smirking. “The Boston princess?” another chimed in. Laughter rippled around the table. I froze. Marco didn’t even flinch. He just leaned back, sipping his drink like this was normal, like I wasn’t sitting right there. He didn’t ask to talk. Didn’t ask how my flight was. Didn’t even look at me long enough to notice that I’d been dying to see him for years. “Marco…” I tried, my voice tighter than I wanted it to be. “Can we talk? Privately?” He laughed. Actually laughed. “Privately? Come on, babe. They won’t judge.” That did it. The laughter came again, louder this time, and something inside me snapped. “I’m leaving,” I said sharply, stepping back. He blinked, the smirk fading. “Alora…wait.” But I was already pushing through the crowd, the bass fading behind me as the night swallowed the sound of my heels. Outside, the cold air hit me harder than I expected. I wrapped my arms around myself, my throat tightening. I didn’t realize how fast I was walking until my heels began to ache. The sound of laughter and music from the bar faded behind me, replaced by the low hum of the river nearby. I was halfway down the street when a man stumbled out from a side alley. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t walk alone,” he slurred, his eyes glassy. I froze. He took another step, the stench of alcohol hitting me before his words did. “Let me walk you home, hmm?” His fingers reached for my hair. “Don’t touch me.” I stepped back, but he only laughed, brushing his hand against my shoulder. Before I could scream, the screech of tires cut through the night. A black car slowed near the curb. Marco’s. He leaned over the passenger seat, window rolling down. “Get in.” I hesitated. Part of me wanted to turn and run, but I wasn’t going to make a scene on the street. Not here. When I slid in, the car smelled faintly of mint and leather. The silence between us was thick, heavier than any fight we’d ever had. “Where are we going?” I asked after a minute. He didn’t answer. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Marco?” Nothing. The city lights blurred past, the noise fading as we drove farther from the center. I glanced out the window, recognizing the curve of the river and the silhouette of the old bridge cutting through Verona’s skyline. “Marco, what are we…” He pulled over. The headlights cut through the fog, spilling light over the empty stretch of bridge. The place looked abandoned, a ribbon of mist curling over the water below. My stomach dropped at the sight of the height. I’d hated high places ever since I was ten, when a ferris wheel stopped midair and left me hanging for hours. Even now, the memory of wind and emptiness made my knees weak. This didn’t feel like a date anymore. It felt like an ending, the kind that made your stomach twist before you even knew why. He stepped out first. I followed slowly, my heels clicking against the damp pavement. The bridge loomed above us, silent except for the hum of the wind. I wrapped my arms tighter around myself. “Why are we here?” He didn’t look at me right away, just stared at the water below like it had answers. Finally, he turned. His face was unreadable. “Do you even love me, Alora?” I blinked. “What?” “You heard me.” He stepped closer. “You lie to your father to see me, but you leave when things get a little uncomfortable? Do you even know what you want?” “That’s not fair…” “Then prove it.” My stomach sank. “Prove it how?” He tilted his head toward the edge of the bridge. “Jump.” For a second, I thought I’d misheard him. “What?” “People do it all the time,” he said simply. “It’s not that high. The water’s deep. You’ll be fine.” “Marco, that’s insane.” “Then maybe you don’t love me as much as you say.” The words hit harder than they should have. Maybe because they sounded so calm. So certain. I stared at him, my chest tight. “You’re serious?” “Dead serious.” The wind picked up, tangling my hair around my face. My throat burned, but I couldn’t look away. “This isn’t you,” I whispered. “You’re scaring me.” He gave a hollow laugh. “You already did that when you walked away.” Something cracked in me. The night, the bridge, the boy I thought I loved, it all blurred into a single ache. Maybe if I jumped, he’d see I wasn’t the villain he painted me as. Maybe he’d finally look at me the way he used to. Maybe I was just tired of proving myself to people who never stayed. Still, my feet moved. One step. Then another. The metal railing gleamed faintly beneath the moonlight. The water below looked dark and endless. “Marco…” My voice shook. He didn’t answer. My legs moved forward, the second following it, getting to the verge, then…