Serafina's POV:

I finished that steak alone, though the expensive cut of meat tasted like ash in my mouth.

I raised my wine glass, gesturing toward the empty chair across from me.

"To new beginnings," I whispered.

As soon as my plate was empty, I picked up my phone.

Instead of calling a friend, I contacted a confidential service specializing in discrete relocations.

"I need a full move-out. Tonight. Right now," I said, keeping my tone brief and to the point.

"Ma'am, it's past midnight. We'll have to charge double our emergency rate for this." The man on the other end hesitated.

"I'll pay triple," I cut him off. "In cash. Be here in thirty minutes."

My eyes swept over the penthouse, the gilded cage I had lived in for nearly seven years. Every piece of furniture, every painting on the wall, reminded me of him.

Reminded me that I was nothing more than a beautiful placeholder.

Stepping into the bedroom, I opened the walk-in closet. My clothes hung neatly beside his tailored suits.

I pulled out three suitcases I always kept ready for an emergency-a habit I had developed since the early days of being with him.

I only packed what truly belonged to me, leaving behind all the gifts and jewelry, except for the cursed ring sitting heavy in my pocket.

It struck me with a painful clarity that he had never given me anything of real value.

There wasn't a single item that wasn't a tool designed to keep me tethered to him.

My phone buzzed. The movers were downstairs.

I opened the door to find four men, their faces completely impassive, their movements crisp and efficient.

The crew leader, a burly man with kind eyes, gave me a quick glance.

"I didn't live alone before," I said, my voice steady, "but I do now."

He nodded, immediately understanding the assignment. "Understood, miss." He turned to his men.

In less than an hour, the once warm and cozy home was reduced to a cold, empty shell. They packed away my entire life with effortless ease.

On the entryway table, only a silver picture frame remained. It held a photo of Dante and me in Tuscany, both of us smiling brightly. It was the only picture of us together in the entire apartment.

I walked over, picked it up, and laid it face down on the polished wood.

Then I walked out without looking back.

The car drove silently through the sleeping city. It wasn't heading to a hotel, but to a four-bedroom apartment in an unassuming building on the other side of town-a place I had bought with my own savings a month ago.

A contingency plan.

Deep down, maybe I had always known this day would come. I was glad I had never told Dante about it. This last sanctuary wouldn't be tainted by his memory.

Standing in the empty living room, the faint smell of fresh paint still lingering in the air, a profound sense of relief washed over me.

It was a feeling I hadn't realized I was so desperately craving.

It was the feeling of being truly alone, truly free.

My phone buzzed, the harsh sound shattering the quiet.

A text from Dante.

"Come back when you're done throwing your tantrum. Don't make me come get you."

The words weren't a plea; they were an order. It was the pure arrogance of a deposed king refusing to accept he had lost his crown.

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen.

He still thought he could control me.

He was about to find out just how dead wrong he was.

Serafina's POV:

I stared at Dante's message, the words radiating his casual, thoughtless authority.

I didn't reply.

Simply deleting his threats wasn't enough; I needed to erase him completely.

Just as my finger hovered over the block button, a new notification popped up. A friend request.

From Isabella Falcone.

A cold, detached smile touched the corners of my mouth.

The timing was too perfect to be a coincidence.

I accepted it.

Instantly, a message appeared on the screen. It was a photo of Dante, slumped in a leather chair with a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him. He looked wasted, his tie loosened, his eyes unfocused.

Isabella followed it up with a caption: "He's heartbroken because I'm getting married tomorrow. Poor guy."

I scoffed. He didn't look heartbroken at all; he looked like a pathetic drunk drowning his sorrows.

Next came a voice note. The background was loud, filled with the clinking of glasses and muffled music. But over it all, I could hear Dante's slurred voice, heavy with alcohol and self-pity.

"Isabella... don't marry him... I love you... only you..."

The words were a grotesque parody of a romantic confession. Then, she dropped the final bombshell: a photo of her and Dante tangled in the bedsheets, her face pressed smugly against his bare shoulder.

Her final message was simple, yet dripping with malice: Loser.

A feeling akin to pity welled up inside me. Not for myself, but for the sheer delusion of it all.

I had spent seven years falling in love with a lunatic, and he had an equally unhinged friend to match.

My fingers moved slowly across the screen. I opened a digital gift card app, loaded it with exactly one dollar, and attached a note.

No refunds on secondhand goods. Buy yourself some class.

I hit send. Then, with a deeply satisfying sense of finality, I blocked and deleted Isabella Falcone.

I switched back to my chat with Dante. His message was still sitting there, like an order waiting to be obeyed.

"Come back when you're done throwing your tantrum. Don't make me come get you."

I blocked him, too.

For what felt like the first time in forever, my world finally went quiet, and it was an absolute blessing.

Serafina's POV:

The silence lasted exactly thirty seconds. My phone buzzed again, this time from an unknown number. The text was short, its tone dripping with insolent arrogance.

Grand Hyatt, Presidential Suite, Room 8808. Dante is right here with me. You're welcome to come experience it for yourself.

Isabella.

Her persistence was almost laughable. She wasn't satisfied with a private victory; she needed an audience. She wanted to watch me break.

A cold, razor-sharp idea formed clearly in my mind.

She wanted a show? I would give her one.

I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number of an information broker who owed me a favor.

"I need Rocco Moretti's WhatsApp number," I typed. "He's Isabella Falcone's fiancé."

The reply came instantly.

"Were you invited?"

I texted back: I have a wedding gift to deliver.

A contact card popped up on my screen.

I added Rocco's number. He accepted immediately-clearly, a man who stayed on high alert.

Without so much as a hello, I forwarded him the photo of Isabella and Dante in bed. Then, I sent the audio recording of Dante's drunken confession.

Before the second message even registered as "Read," my phone started ringing.

I answered.

"Who is this?" Rocco's voice was tight, a low growl laced with suppressed rage. "Where did you get this?"

"My name is Serafina," I said evenly. "Your fiancée is currently in Suite 8808 with my ex-boyfriend. I believe she's waiting for us to catch them in the act."

A sharp intake of breath echoed through the line, followed by a long silence as he fought to leash his temper.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was dangerously calm.

"Your address."

"I'll be downstairs. Give me a minute to change."

I hung up and strode into my closet. I pulled on a black tracksuit and running shoes, tying my hair back into a severe, no-nonsense ponytail.

The mirror reflected a stranger. Her eyes were calm, but deep within them flickered a lethal intent.

This wasn't about jealousy anymore. It was about honor-his, and mine.

Downstairs, a black Maybach idled at the curb, its engine purring with a low rumble. Rocco leaned against it; he was a massive man, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that did nothing to hide the raw, violent power coiled beneath.

Our eyes met, and in that instant, an unspoken understanding passed between us.

We were strangers bound by betrayal, yet suddenly, the most perfectly aligned allies.

At the hotel, Rocco didn't make a scene. He simply murmured a few words to the duty manager, flashed something from his wallet, and walked away with a master keycard for Suite 8808.

Standing outside the door, I could hear Isabella's shrill laughter bleeding through the wood. The sound grated on my nerves, sending a chill down my spine.

I looked at Rocco and gestured toward the door, silently telling him to go first.

He gave a grim, singular nod.

I pulled out my phone and hit record.

With a soft beep, the lock disengaged.

Rocco shoved the door open, and we stormed into the suite.