Red Card to Your Heart: You Don't Deserve My Love Extra Time novel Chapter 8

Silence hung heavy on the other end of the line. Not knowing what else to say, I simply hung up.

When I finally checked the balance on the card Mrs. Ferreira had given me, I nearly dropped my phone. The amount was staggering—so many zeros that I had to count them three times to be sure I wasn't hallucinating.

After verifying the balance several times, I carefully placed the card in my wallet, suddenly understanding with painful clarity my friend's warning: "You're not from the same world."

She had been right all along. My parents were ordinary people—my father a high school chemistry teacher, my mother a librarian in our small town outside Manchester. They lived in the same modest three-bedroom house where I'd grown up, drove the same ten-year-old Vauxhall, and considered a weekend trip to London a special treat.

They had visited me in Porto once, about eight months into Diego's recovery. I remembered their nervous excitement as they pulled up to his oceanfront building in their rental car, my father whistling low under his breath at the uniformed doorman and marble lobby.

"Quite posh, isn't it?" my mother had whispered, smoothing down her best dress—the one she'd worn to my university graduation.

Diego's mother had arranged a dinner that evening that still made me cringe to remember. The dining table had been set with what I later learned was 19th-century Limoges china. The silverware had been actual silver. The wine—served by a sommelier she'd hired for the occasion—had cost more per bottle than my parents spent on groceries in a week.

"And what do you do, Mr. Walsh?" Mrs. Ferreira had asked my father, her diamond tennis bracelet catching the light as she delicately cut into her wagyu steak.

"I teach secondary school chemistry," he'd answered with his usual pride.

"How... rewarding," she'd replied, her smile never reaching her eyes.

When my mother had attempted to compliment the penthouse's décor, mentioning that she'd seen similar curtains in a magazine, Mrs. Ferreira had smiled thinly and explained they were custom-made in Milan.

Diego had remained mostly silent throughout dinner, occasionally catching my eye with an apologetic glance. Even he seemed uncomfortable with his mother's barely disguised condescension.

After returning to their modest hotel, my parents had called me. "Sweetheart," my mother had said gently, "this might be quite difficult for you."

"These people move in very different circles," my father had added, concern evident in his voice.

But neither of them had tried to dissuade me. Instead, they'd said simply, "Go ahead and try if this is what you want. Worst case, you can always come home."

That unconditional support—so different from Mrs. Ferreira's calculated approval—had been my anchor during the hardest days of Diego's recovery.

Only now, two years later, did I fully comprehend the message behind Diego's mother's excessive hospitality that night. The seven-course meal featuring foods my parents couldn't pronounce. The casual mentions of their vacation home in Tuscany and Diego's childhood riding lessons. The subtle questions designed to highlight the gulf between our families.

We are not the same, she had been saying. You do not belong in our world.

And now, ironically, she had paid me off with a sum that would have seemed incomprehensible to my parents—money that was merely a rounding error in the Ferreira family accounts.

And then—his silence when I'd asked that final question.

His friends noticed me and waved enthusiastically, beckoning me over as if nothing had happened, as if I hadn't walked away from their celebration two weeks ago, leaving a vacuum that apparently still hadn't been filled.

"Emma! Come join us!" Marco called out, ignoring the way Diego suddenly stiffened in his chair.

I hesitated, my hand tightening around my coffee cup.

Diego's expression was unreadable, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made my chest ache. What was he thinking? Did he resent his friends pushing him toward reconciliation? Was he embarrassed to face me after our last conversation?

Their words of praise should have warmed me—finally, someone had seen the dedication, the sacrifice, the love I'd poured into Diego's recovery. His friends recognized what I had given up, even if Diego himself had dismissed it with his silence.

But instead of vindication, I felt only hollowness. What good were their accolades if Diego himself couldn't—or wouldn't—acknowledge what had existed between us?

Had he truly never seen the depth of my feelings? Or had he seen them clearly and simply found them insufficient?

As his friends continued to wave me over, Diego remained silent, neither encouraging their efforts nor stopping them. Just watching me, his dark eyes revealing nothing of what lay behind them.