Elena POV

The bell above the door chimed—a cheerful, tinkling sound that felt entirely discordant with the dread settling in my stomach.

I stepped into the boutique, immediately hit by the cloying scent of lavender and the crisp smell of new fabric.

Dante stalked in behind me.

He was pacing before the door even closed, checking his watch with a sharp flick of his wrist.

He radiated a dark, restless impatience.

He loathed waiting.

He loathed anything that didn't bend immediately to his will.

I walked to the counter, keeping my spine stiff.

"I'm here for the fitting," I said to the seamstress.

She smiled, though the expression was brittle.

Everyone was nervous around Dante.

"Of course, Miss Vitiello. And Mr. Moretti, your tuxedo is ready as well."

Dante let out a harsh sigh.

He stripped off his coat in one fluid, aggressive motion.

He tossed it at me without looking.

It struck me square in the face.

The heavy wool scratched against my cheek, blinding me for a second.

Then, the scent of vanilla suffocated me.

It wasn't his coat.

I peeled the fabric away from my face.

It was a woman's coat.

Camel hair. A petite cut.

Sofia's.

"You are careless," Dante snapped, not even glancing at me. "Hold it properly. Don't wrinkle it."

He thought it was mine.

He thought he was throwing my own property at me with such disdain.

I looked down at the soft material in my hands.

"This isn't mine," I said.

Dante froze.

He turned back slowly, his eyes narrowing into slits.

He looked at the coat.

Then he looked at me.

His expression shifted instantly.

The annoyance evaporated, replaced by a gentle, sickening recognition.

He walked over and took the coat from my hands.

He didn't snatch it.

He handled it with reverence, as if it were made of spun glass.

He folded it over his arm, his thumb absentmindedly smoothing the fabric.

"Right," he muttered, his voice dropping. "It's hers."

He didn't apologize.

He just protected the coat.

He protected her coat with more ferocity than he had protected me at the Gala.

"Go put on the dress," he ordered, his tone turning cold again. "I don't have all day."

I retreated into the fitting room.

I slipped into the gown.

It was objectively beautiful.

It was supposed to be my armor.

I stepped out onto the pedestal.

Dante was already waiting, clad in his tuxedo.

He looked like a king.

A dark, dangerous king.

He assessed me in the mirror, his gaze flat.

His lip curled.

"It's too much," he said.

"It's the style," I said, my voice hollow.

"It's tacky," he said. "You look desperate. Like you're trying too hard to be seen."

I stood there.

Frozen.

"Take a picture," I said to the seamstress, staring straight ahead. "For the file."

Dante groaned.

"Fine. One picture."

He stepped up beside me.

He didn't touch me.

He stood with his hands buried in his pockets, looking utterly bored.

The camera flashed.

Then, his phone rang.

A specific, personalized ringtone.

He moved away from me instantly, as if I were contagious.

"Piccola?" he answered.

His voice was soft.

Tender.

"I know," he said into the phone, turning his back to me. "I have it. I'm keeping it safe. Don't cry. I'm coming."

He hung up.

He didn't bother changing out of the tuxedo.

He grabbed Sofia's coat, clutching it close.

"I have to go," he said. "Sofia is distressed. She lost her coat."

"You're leaving me here?" I asked, disbelief coloring my tone.

"Take a taxi," he said over his shoulder. "And burn that dress. It's hideous."

The door chimed again.

And then he was gone.

The seamstress looked at me with pity.

I hated pity.

"Miss?" she asked softly. "Should I pack it up?"

I looked at the gown in the mirror.

White silk.

Intricate lace.

A lie.

"Do you have scissors?" I asked.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

I spotted a pair of heavy fabric shears on the counter.

I stepped off the pedestal.

I picked them up.

The steel felt cold and heavy in my grip.

"Miss Vitiello, that is imported silk—"

I drove the scissors into the skirt.

The sound of ripping fabric filled the silent shop—a violent, satisfying tear.

I cut.

I slashed.

I destroyed the lace bodice.

I destroyed the train.

I destroyed the false hope.

I stepped out of the ruins of the dress, leaving the white shreds on the floor like dead skin.

"Put it on his bill," I said.

Elena POV

My phone lit up on the nightstand, casting a harsh glare in the dark.

Drinking with associates. Don't wait up.

I didn't reply. I didn't even unlock the screen.

I wasn't waiting up. I was already asleep. Or at least, trying to be.

The empty side of the bed was cold. It used to feel like a gaping wound, a physical ache in my chest. Tonight, it just felt like space. Just square footage.

I woke up at 6 AM.

I cleaned the penthouse. I made coffee. Black, no sugar.

Just the way I liked it. Just the way he never bothered to remember.

The front door opened at 7.

Dante walked in. He looked rough, the polish of the city's golden boy stripped away by the night. His tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck.

He smelled like stale smoke and yesterday's bourbon.

Regret? No. Just a hangover.

I was taking the trash bag out of the bin when he stopped in the hallway, blinking at me through bloodshot eyes.

"Is your phone broken?" he asked.

His voice was a gravelly growl, rough with exhaustion.

"No," I said.

"You didn't check in," he said, leaning against the wall as if the world were tilting. "I didn't get a single text asking when I'd be home."

"I was sleeping."

He frowned. He didn't like that answer. He preferred me anxious. He liked me pacing the floor, worrying if he was dead in a ditch or in another woman's bed.

He walked past me toward the bedroom, then paused at the console table in the hallway.

He stared at the wall. There was a square of lighter paint on the gray wallpaper where a frame used to hang.

"Where is the photo?" he asked.

The photo of us. Taken five years ago. Before the light went out of my eyes.

"The frame broke," I said. My voice was steady.

"Fix it," he said.

He didn't ask how it broke. He didn't care.

His phone vibrated in his hand. He looked down, and the hard line of his jaw softened. A small smile touched his lips.

He pressed a button and brought the phone to his mouth, turning slightly away from me.

"Sleep well, little one. I'll see you at the office."

He walked into the bedroom, closing the door in my face.

I stood there holding the trash bag. My hands started to shake. Not from emotion. I told myself it wasn't emotion.

It was hunger. My blood sugar was crashing.

I dropped the bag and went to the kitchen. I put a slice of bread in the toaster. My vision was swimming at the edges. I needed sugar. I needed food.

Twenty minutes later, Dante came back out.

He had changed into a fresh suit. He looked impeccable again. The Capo armor was back on, tight and tailored.

He saw me eating the dry toast and scoffed.

"God, Elena," he snapped, adjusting his cufflinks. "I come home starving, and you're stuffing your face? You couldn't wait five minutes to cook for me?"

He snatched the toast from my hand and dropped it into the trash bin.

"We eat when I say we eat," he said. "Make me eggs."

I looked at the trash bin. My breakfast. My fuel.

"I'm going to be late for work," I said.

"You work for me," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You're never late unless I say you are."

He turned his back to fill a glass of water.

I didn't make the eggs.

I picked up my purse and walked out the door.

In the elevator, the silence ringing in my ears, I opened social media. I went to his profile.

He had changed his cover photo. It used to be the skyline of the city he ruled. Now, it was a photo of a coffee cup with lipstick stains on the rim.

Her lipstick.

Caption: Morning essentials.

I didn't cry. I didn't feel anything at all.

I tapped the screen. I liked the photo.

Then I went to my contacts. I found Dante - My Life.

I changed it to Dante Moretti.

I unpinned him from the top.

I watched his name slide down the list, buried under the dry cleaner and the dog walker.

It was a small thing. But it felt like cutting a chain.

Elena POV

The elevator at Moretti Holdings was a glass cage that offered a panoramic view of the city. I refused to look at it. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on the digital display, watching the floor numbers tick upward.

I was on my lunch break, heading toward an appointment with a realtor. A secret appointment.

The doors slid open on the executive floor, and the air instantly grew heavier. Dante stepped in, with Sofia clinging to his side like a decorative accessory. She was giggling, her hand staking a claim on his bicep. When she looked up and saw me, her smile widened.

It was a predator's baring of teeth disguised as a kitten's grin.

"Elena!" she chirped. "Going down?"

"Yes," I said.

Dante looked at me. His dark gaze slid over me, heavy with irritation, as if my mere existence was an interruption to his schedule. He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind Sofia's ear.

"Your hair is messy," he murmured.

"You messed it up," she whispered back, pitching her voice perfectly so I wouldn't miss a word.

"Stop whining," he said, but his tone was playful. He never played with me.

"Join us for lunch," Dante said.

It wasn't an invitation. It was a command.

"I can't," I said. "I have business."

His eyes narrowed into slits. "What business?"

"Personal business."

"You don't have personal business," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Cancel it."

Before I could respond, the elevator shuddered violently. The overhead lights flickered and died, plunging us into a sudden, heavy silence before the emergency red glare bathed the small space.

"Oh god," Sofia gasped. "I can't breathe. It's too tight in here."

She grabbed Dante's lapels. "It's okay," he soothed. "I'm here."

He pulled her into his arms, rubbing circles into her back and whispering reassurances I couldn't distinguish over the pounding of my own heart.

I pressed myself into the corner, fighting the familiar constriction in my chest. I was the one with the diagnosis. I was the one whose lungs actually seized in confined spaces. But I stood stone still.

I turned on my phone flashlight. The harsh beam hit them, cutting through the red gloom.

Dante glared at me.

"Turn that off," he hissed. "You're blinding her."

"The power is out, Dante," I said.

"She has a heart condition," he snapped. "She's fragile."

Fragile.

I was the one who had nearly died last week.

The elevator jolted again, and the doors groaned, prying open a few inches. We were level with the lobby floor, but the gap was barely wide enough to squeeze through.

Veins bulged in Dante's neck as he pried the doors apart with his bare hands. He shoved Sofia through the gap first.

"Go," he told her. "Get to the clinic. Get checked out."

She scrambled out, looking back with wide, fake-terrified eyes. Dante followed her immediately. He stepped out. He started to walk away.

The doors began to slide shut again.

He didn't look back. He didn't reach for a hand that was waiting to be taken. He left me alone in the dark metal box.

Panic surged, cold and sharp. I jammed my foot in the door. The rubber seal pinched my ankle, grinding against the bone, but I forced the doors back with a grunt of effort.

I squeezed out into the lobby.

I watched Dante's retreating back as he rushed Sofia toward the exit. He was carrying her now. Like a bride.

I looked down at my phone. The screen was cracked—a spiderweb of glass from where I had banged it against the wall in my struggle.

Ignoring the throb in my ankle, I walked out the side exit and took a taxi to the apartment viewing.

It was small. It smelled sharply of bleach. It was perfect.

I went back to the office at 5 PM. Dante was sitting at my desk.

He had a small box of pastries. "Cannoli," he said. "From lunch."

The box was open, revealing the ravaged remains. Half-eaten. Leftovers.

"Sofia couldn't finish them," he said. "I thought you'd want them."

He placed the box on my keyboard.

"I need you to print the quarterly reports," he said.

"I can't," I said.

"Why?"

"I'm printing something else."

The printer whirred to life beside us. A single sheet of paper slid into the tray. I picked it up and handed it to him.

"What is this?" he asked.

"My resignation," I said.

He laughed. A short, sharp bark of disbelief. "You can't resign, Elena. You belong to the Family."

"I resign from the legitimate company," I said, my voice steady. "I resign from being your secretary. And I certainly resign from eating her leftovers."

I picked up the pastry box and dropped it into the trash can next to my desk with a final, dull thud.

"You're fired," I whispered to the empty air, the words tasting like freedom as I walked away.