Playing for Keeps: Finding Love Beyond the Lies - Chapter 48: Chapter 48

I found a small studio apartment to stay in, not far from the marina. Nothing fancy—just clean and functional, with large windows that let in more natural light than Diego's luxury penthouse had ever managed.
Without needing to monitor Diego constantly, without fearing his middle-of-the-night breakdowns or violent outbursts, my body suddenly relaxed—almost too completely.
Ironically, I couldn't sleep. My nervous system had become so accustomed to constant vigilance that this sudden freedom felt disorienting. I sat on the tiny balcony with a glass of water, staring at the few visible stars in the city sky, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of normal life continuing below.
In the perfect silence of 3 AM, I finally heard my own thoughts again.
I expected to feel devastated, heartbroken. To sob uncontrollably now that I was finally alone.
But strangely, I didn't. I only traced the circular indentation on my ring finger, wondering how long it would take to fade.
That night, all I consciously registered was the slight chill in the air and the unusual brightness of the stars.
Yet beneath this strange calm, an unsettling emptiness was growing. For two years, my existence had revolved entirely around Diego—his needs, his moods, his recovery. Without that anchor, I felt oddly weightless, like I might simply float away.
The freedom I'd suddenly acquired felt vast and terrifying. No schedule to follow. No medications to administer. No one depending on my unwavering strength.
Who was I without Diego Ferreira?
Diego called before dawn the next morning. When I answered, there was only silence on his end.
Finally, I broke it. "Do you need something?"
He spoke hesitantly, his voice uncharacteristically tentative. "Emma, I want the custard buns for breakfast. The ones you make."
The request transported me instantly back to those early days after his injury. When he had refused to eat anything at all.
It had been during his darkest period, when he'd lost nearly fifteen pounds in two weeks, his once-powerful athlete's frame becoming gaunt and weak. I had tried everything—protein shakes, his favorite Portuguese dishes, even calling his mother to ask what he'd loved as a child.
He had turned his head away from every offering, mouth set in a grim line of determination. His method of control when everything else had been taken from him.
"Vai-te embora," he'd snarled when I'd begged. Go away.
"Estou farto," he'd growled when I'd persisted. I'm sick of this.
Eventually, my tears had fallen to the floor as I knelt beside his wheelchair, no longer the strong caregiver but a desperate woman pleading: "Please, Diego, just one bite. You're killing yourself."
Perhaps tired of my crying, or maybe seeing the genuine fear in my eyes, he had finally taken a reluctant bite of a custard bun I'd spent hours learning to make from a YouTube tutorial.
He wouldn't eat the store-bought ones after that—only mine, with the slightly imperfect crimping and extra vanilla I always added.
It had become our ritual. Every morning for nearly two years, I'd placed a freshly steamed custard bun on his plate, watching with satisfaction as his strength gradually returned.
And now here he was, asking for one as if nothing had changed. As if he hadn't shattered my heart less than twenty-four hours ago.
"Diego," I said calmly, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice, "I'm gone."
I could hear his breathing on the other end of the line. For a moment, I thought he might apologize or ask me to come back.
Instead, he said nothing.
This silence—so different from his previous rages—was somehow worse. The Diego I'd known would have demanded I return, would have cursed in Portuguese and English, would have given me something to push against.
This quiet uncertainty was new. And two years too late.
After a long pause, I continued, my professional caregiver voice taking over: "Your physical therapist will arrive at nine. The new caregiver starts at eleven. Your mother has arranged everything."
More silence.
"There's a binder on the kitchen counter with instructions for all your medications and exercises. I've written everything down. Make sure you do the nerve stimulation exercises twice daily, not just once."
I waited, giving him one last chance to say something—anything—that might change the course we were now on.
When he remained silent, I added, "I hope you make a full recovery, Diego. Truly."
Was that a slight intake of breath I heard? A preparation to speak? I would never know, because I hung up before my own voice could betray me.
Setting the phone down, I walked back to the balcony of my tiny rented apartment. The sun was just beginning to rise over Porto, bathing the terracotta rooftops in golden light.
For the first time in two years, I didn't have to plan my day around someone else's needs. No medications to organize, no therapy appointments to schedule, no exercises to supervise.
I could go anywhere. Do anything.
The realization was both liberating and terrifying.
My phone buzzed with a text message. For a heartbeat, I thought it might be Diego. But it was his mother:
"The card is active. Use it. You've earned it."
I set the phone aside without replying.
The indentation on my finger caught the morning light. It would fade eventually, I knew. But as I stared at it, I wondered if some marks were permanent—not the physical ones, but the invisible ones that reshape who we are.
Two years ago, I would have rushed back at his first hint of needing me. I would have steamed those custard buns at dawn, would have continued to give and give without any promise of return.
Now, I stayed where I was, watching the city wake up without me.
The emptiness inside me grew, a hollow ache that expanded with each breath. But alongside it was something else—something unfamiliar that might, with time, begin to feel like freedom.