Page 2 of The Mafia King's Baby

“You’re too intense, Celia,” he’d said during our final fight, the words delivered with the casual cruelty of someone who’d been thinking them for months. “Everything has to be planned and organized and perfect with you. Can’t you just relax and see where things go for once?”

The irony wasn’t lost on me then, and it stings even more now. He’d spent three years stringing me along with vague promises about “someday” and “when things settle down,” then had the audacity to blame me for wanting clarity about our future. When I finally asked directly if he saw us getting married, building a life together, and starting a family, he’d looked at me like I’d suggested we rob a bank together.

“Marriage? Kids? We’re having fun, Celia. Why do you always have to complicate things?”

Fun. Three years of my life, three years of believing we were building something meaningful together, reduced to casual entertainment. Three years of introducing him as my boyfriend, of planning vacations and holidays around his schedule, and of turning down opportunities because I thought we had a future worth protecting, all dismissed as temporary amusement.

The relationship had been passionate in the beginning and intense in the way that made me feel alive and desired and special. Tripp was charming, spontaneous, and magnetic in social situations. He made me laugh, pushed me out of my comfort zone, and introduced me to experiences I never would have sought on my own. For a while, his unpredictability felt exciting rather than exhausting.

All that passion, but no commitment? It was just chaos. The spontaneity I loved? It just became unreliability.

The charm he turned on strangers never quite extended to the everyday moments of our relationship. He was emotionally unavailable when I needed support, dismissive when I tried to discuss our future, and increasingly critical of the very qualities that made me successful in other areas of my life.

My friends had tried to warn me, in the gentle way that good friends do when they see you making choices that worry them. “He’s fun, but is he serious about you?” my friend Gemma had asked more than once. “You deserve someone who’s as invested in this relationship as you are.” She and I have been friends for two years, so she knows me well enough to ask the hard questions.

I’d defended him, made excuses for his behavior, and convinced myself that his reluctance to commit was just a difference in timing rather than a fundamental incompatibility. I told myself that men mature slower, so he needed more time to be ready for the next step and pressuring him would only push him away.

The truth was simpler and more painful. He was never going to be ready because he didn’t want the same things I wanted. While I was building a future in my mind, he was enjoying the present with no thought for tomorrow. While I was falling deeper in love, he was maintaining just enough distance to keep his options open.

The breakup came during one of our increasingly frequent arguments about where our relationship was heading. I’d made the mistake of showing him a house listing I’d found, a cute craftsman bungalow in a neighborhood we both liked, andsuggesting we could think about moving in together. I’d offered to sell my small house to provide the down payment.

His reaction was immediate and harsh. “Jesus, Celia, we’ve talked about this. I’m not ready to play house. Can’t we just enjoy what we have without you constantly pushing for more?”

“It’s been three years, Tripp,” I’d said, trying to keep my voice calm even as frustration boiled inside me. “I’m not pushing for more. I’m asking for clarity about what we’re building together. Do you see a future with me or not?”

“I see right now,” he’d said, and that’s when I knew it was over. “Right now is good. Why isn’t that enough for you?”

Because right now without tomorrow is just elaborate procrastination. Because love without commitment is just convenience dressed up in prettier words. Because I was twenty-seven years old and tired of dating like I was still in college and tired of relationships that went nowhere because one person refused to choose a direction.

The fight that followed was ugly, full of accusations and hurt feelings that we’d both been storing up for months. He called me controlling and demanding. I called him selfish and immature. We said things designed to wound, words we couldn’t take back even if we’d wanted to—not that I wanted to then or now.

He’d packed his things that night and moved back to the apartment he’d technically still been keeping even though he’d been staying at my place most nights for the past year. Even that felt symbolic as I’d realized he’d never fully committed to moving in, always keeping one foot out the door just in case something better came along.

The silence that followed was deafening. No calls, no texts, and no attempts to work things out or even to apologize for the cruel things we’d said. It was as if three years had been erased overnight, as if I’d meant so little to him that walking away required no effort at all. Honestly, I hadn’t been inclined to reach out either though, at least at first.

Two weeks later, when I got the layoff notice, my first instinct was to call him. Not because I wanted to get back together, but because he’d been my person for three years, the one I turned to when life knocked me down. For a split second, I forgot that he wasn’t mine to call anymore.

That realization hurt almost as much as the original breakup, but it came with the knowledge I’d allowed myself to believe he was my person when he never really was. Instead, I’d called Gemma. Despite our friendship not being the longest one in my life, she was easier to turn to and provided good advice.

All these changes seemed to happen in my life one after the other, like dominoes falling in a carefully orchestrated sequence designed to destroy everything I’d built. Job gone, relationship over, future plans scrapped, and financial security evaporating. Some days, I felt like I was drowning in the wreckage of my former life, struggling to find solid ground in the chaos.

Other days, like today, I can see the possibility hidden in the destruction. Maybe losing everything I thought I wanted is actually freedom in disguise. Maybe starting over isn’t a failure but an opportunity to build something better that’s entirely mine.

This QwikRent listing represents more than just a business venture. It’s proof that I can create something from nothing and don’t need a corporate job or a relationship to define myworth. I’m choosing my own path forward, regardless of how unconventional it might seem to others.

My mother will undoubtedly have opinions about my decision to become a host. She’ll worry about safety, question the financial viability, and probably suggest I move back home instead of “playing innkeeper” in what she’ll see as a desperate attempt to avoid admitting defeat. Fortunately, her approval has never been the goal. My independence is.

Tripp would probably laugh if he knew what I’m doing. He’d see it as another example of my need to control every aspect of my environment, to create perfect experiences for others because I can’t accept the messy unpredictability of real life, but he’d be wrong, just like he was wrong about so many things.

This isn’t about control. It’s about creating something beautiful and welcoming for people who need a soft place to land during their travels. It’s about turning my attention to detail and my desire to nurture into something valuable and meaningful, and it’s about my survival. Knowing I have nothing left to lose, I decide to set my room listing live for potential renters.

My finger hovers over the “Publish” button, and my heart rate increases. This is the moment when possibility becomes reality, when all my planning and preparation and hope gets tested against the harsh judgment of the marketplace.

I think about the room upstairs, waiting quietly for its first guest with the notebook and pen in the nightstand drawer, ready to capture someone’s thoughts about their stay in Lake Tahoe. I think about the fresh flowers I’ll replace weekly, the coffee I’ll stock monthly, and the care I’ll put into every detail because that’s who I am—someone who believes that small gestures can make big differences.

I think about Tripp, who never understood that my so-called intensity was actually love made visible, my former colleagues at Henderson & Associates, who are probably relieved they survived the latest round of layoffs, and my mother, who’ll worry no matter what I do but who raised me to be resourceful and determined.

Most of all, I think about myself, the woman I’m becoming in the aftermath of loss, and the strength I’m discovering in the space where my old life used to be. I take a deep breath, whisper a small prayer to whatever forces might be listening, and click “Publish.”

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