I'm counting the invisible bruises that are wielding grief like the glittered red edge of a blade. 95 days later, I'm hollow to the core and broken into pieces. 95 days later, the ring has never left my finger. The weight of it begins to accumulate more and more and more. Some nights when I twist it back and forth on my finger, there's a faint blue line wrapped around my finger - constant reminder and mark.

95 days later, Dimitri is all I think about. I'm simply a graveyard of broken vows and promises. Some nights, my mind feels heavy with the replays of the whole facade and I can't stop them from flashing through my mind. So, I bare out the torture. It's okay I remind myself. I'm allowed to feel and break over again and over again. Loneliness settles in faster and pulls me down, down, down and down like an anchor. It tugs and pulls at my soul and there's nowhere to run too.

You're harming the animals by throwing a foreign object into the sea. I recommend pawning it, you'll get a fruitful. Dimitri laughed about that night in my apartment and threaded the ring on my finger. The very next day, I take his advice and pawn the ring off.

The old frail man wearing fisheye glasses frowns at me and offers a miserly price of four thousand. I'm not aware of the actual value of the ring but the weight and cut of the diamond totals it over a hundred thousand. At this rate, I'm eager to sever the ties and anything that relates me back to Dimitri.

I take the money and slowly rebuild my life again.

It's taken endless nights of pain, heartache and a handful of crying to break the weight off me. I've got a new job, I've moved into a better house and Barcelona's sun is a nice start to my day. The morning sunlight basks me in bed and before I end up rolling out of bed and forcing myself to get ready for the day.

It's crazy, when I was with him I had no job. Now, I'm apart from him and I've got a whole list of people who want me to work for them. Apparently, there's a demand for English teachers and it's highly valued by these private schools. I scaver for every opportunity and I have this endless need to prove myself without the label of Dimitri Asterio's wife or Hugo Antolin's daughter.

I hear his deep voice before I see him. I inwardly cringe and try scrambling away but he's caught me. His blue eyes stare at me in adoration. He bites his lip and scans me from head-to-toe. He leans against the door, arms crossed. "Was there something you wanted Andrés?" I snap when the tension gets unbearable.

Andrés Blanco is a six-foot stud with blue eyes and muscles. He's the talk of all the female students and overly charming and confident. He's the type of guy who knows he can have women falling at his feet because he grins at them.

"There was, Evangelía," he states. I frown at him. He says my name again, slow and leisurely. I don't like it one bit.

"Why do you keep saying my name?" I pass him a burdensome glare to which he doesn't heed too.

"Nothing, you have a pretty and I wanted to say it. Evangelía Quintero huh? Quintero's your father's name?"

Something inside of me snaps like a brittle piece of led and I scowl at him. These days, all I do is scowl and hang with a huge storm cloud above my head. I haven't made any friends because they all avoid me and my terrible flattering moods. "No, my father and mother are dead. It's my Abuela's." I shift around and plot myself on the desk. Small talk, I resent it.

"Oh I'm sorry I didn't know–"

I cut him off, "Do you actually have a reason to be here? You're wasting my lunchtime."

"I just wanted to talk." Silence dreads on. "So where are you from?" I feel terrible, Andrés is actually trying to have a decent conversation with me and I'm giving him no room for it. I'm too tired, too exhausted, too broken. I don't have the physical capacity for new relationships. I miss my best friend. I miss Quinn and her idiotic jokes.

"Barcelona."

He narrows his eyes at me, calling imposter's bluff immediately. "Nah, you have an accent. It sounds British."

Anger sparks in me, sharp and hot. "Stop prying. I took an English course when I was younger and caught a British accent because of my teacher." I've picked up a new skill of lying unprovoked. This is the aftermath of the facade and pretending – too many damn lies.

"I wasn't. It's just an observation." he shrugs. "It slips out when you pronounce some words and you mutter to yourself in English. A lot." He catches me by surprise. I hadn't expected anyone to notice. I'm a native speaker by birth but sometimes my vocabulary fails me and I unconsciously switch back to English.

I glare at him for ever noticing it. He bites his lip again, "I like it when you get mad. It's hot."

Deep breath. "Say that again and I'll report you for harassment,"

He holds his hands up in surrender, chortling out a laugh. It sounds nothing like Dimitri's. His was much softer, rumbled from his throat and crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. My stomach knots with the pulling of my brows taunt. I scold myself for thinking of that wretched city but the flashbacks replay without a warning.

After I ran through London's streets like a madwoman that night - a whole PR disaster and endless buzz for social media. I was most likely ridiculed in the media for weeks on end. London was blown wide with gossiping about #Dimtriella and #fakerelationship.

It took me no less than 24 hours to get the hell out and after I fled London that horrific night, Dimitri got everything he wanted. He was the talk of the city for the scandal but despite the media harassment, the company was finally given to him on a silver platter. Without any backlash. No doubt, Nav was able to negotiate something out for him. He probably stated that his client, Mr Dimitri Asterio's fake marriage had no intent to harm Asterio Industries reputation and what he choose to do in his free time had no weight on the company. End of.

Andrés saunters further into the classroom and peers over me. I don't whether I should hate him or admire his courage for repeatedly seeking out rejections from me.

He sighs a defeated breath, "I'm trying with you, Evangelía. You've been here for three months and you don't have any friends. I just want to be your friend and if it progresses into something more, I wouldn't mind. I think you're extremely pretty." In another world, I would have found his naked honesty flattering and handed my heart to him right away. I can't do that. It already belongs to someone else.

"You should call me tonight." he slides a pink post-it note over. It has his number written on it with a smiley face.

"What if I don't call you?"

"I'll back off." with that, he leaves.

_____________

I've bought myself a bottle of gin for liquid courage. I'm going to call Andrés tonight and try to seek out a new friendship. Maybe this is all I need. A change of setting and scenery. Something raw and authentic, no more fabrication and facades.

Barcelona is vibrant and tumbles with Mediterranean climates on the backbone. It's a humid October and the air is stickly tepid and sweltering.

I can feel my red polka-dot dress beginning to stick to my skin. It's not cold enough to be carrying a cardigan nor is it hot enough to bathe in a cold ice bath. It's thickly muggy and in the distance, there's raffing hooting of men playing a game of cards outside. The sky behind me is a tangerine orange dipped with moonlight and glowing purple that breaks the hues apart.

London cannot compare to Barcelona's beauty. Most of all, I've missed speaking Spanish and rows of townhouses wrapped in vines coloured neons and damp creams. Most of all, I've missed being close to my mother. The graveyard where she's buried is a twenty-minute walk and I can visit whenever I want.

With another step taken, I have an odd feeling like I'm being watched. On beat, I flick my eyes upwards. Mrs Ana waves down at me from the balcony. She's the landlady and has kindly rented the bottom portion of her house to me. Ana is practically a second mother to me. I've spent several nights sitting on her balcony as she narrates stories of her youth over a bottle of wine and cigarettes. She was quite a flirt in her prime and men from Barcelona courted her left, right and centre.

She whistles at me, ever so teasing and friendly. "Te ves caliente, Evangelía."

Pink engulfs my cheeks and I give her a quick twirl, showing off my brand new dress. "Gracias señora Ana." I blew her a dramatic kiss which she captures and attaches to her cheek.

"It's a shame you're single," she adds. I chortle even more. Maybe after tonight, I might not be.

"Do you want to come upstairs and share a whiskey with me?" She offers. It's only six in the afternoon and tonight, I'm not doing much. I have a few papers to mark and maybe call Andrés, if I can build up the courage.

"I'm a little tired today," I call. "Maybe tomorrow?"

She flops her hands at me dismissing, muttering a mocking curse of profanities under her breath. "Que persona tan aburrida eres, Evangelía. It's fine, more whiskey for me." She passes me a sad face and dips inside to check her pepper Gazpacho.

A slamming of a car door sounds in the distance, followed by footsteps. It's probably the next door lady's husband coming home. I prop my keys into the lock and it disengages. I open the door wide and sigh a breath, already feeling the tension warying from my core.

A dark shadow appears over me. "Evangelía?" the voice calls.

"Sí?" The bottle of gin drops out of my hands and shatters into tiny stars, the liquid drains into the concrete. My heart erupts violently and I've backed up against the wall in terror. The violent nights of London sear through my mind. The camera flashes and heinous comments are colliding back.

Dimitri's standing in front of me in living breathing flesh. How the fuck did he find me?