He realized then that "learning to love" wasn't about the grand gestures he was used to—the jewelry, the trips, the public displays. It was about the quiet moments he had ignored. It was about listening to her fears without trying to "fix" them. It was about being vulnerable enough to say, "I’m lost without you."
Adriano laughed, a bitter, dry sound. He had spent his life building an empire, thinking that success was the ultimate shield against loneliness. He thought providing was the same as loving. Now, the gold watch on his wrist felt like a shackle, and the silence in the hallway was deafening.
Adriano stood at the edge of the terrace, his shadow long against the marble. The city lights of Bucharest buzzed below, but he felt only the silence of a house that was too big for one person. He pulled a crumpled note from his pocket—the one she left by the coffee machine three days ago. "Learn to love yourself first," it said.
He didn't call. Instead, he started walking. He went to the small, nameless cafe where they had their first fight over something as silly as a burnt croissant. He sat at their table and waited. He knew she came here when she needed to think.