My anxiety spiked during our wedding photoshoot. A sharp pain stabbed through my chest.

My fiancé, Caius—the Falcone family heir—was helping his adoptive sister, Fiorella, try on my wedding dress.

He didn't even spare me a glance. He was on one knee, focused on adjusting the lace on Fiorella’s hem.

Before we’d even left the shop, Fiorella posted a selfie in the dress. She was all smiles, my fiancé standing beside her, posed like her groom.

Calmly, I pulled out my phone. I sent a message to a painter I keep on retainer.

"A royal portrait. The two of them. Old-world style. Use the cheapest materials you can find. I want the frame dripping with fake diamonds. Make it look like trash."

I'll have it sent to Fiorella. A wedding present. The note will be simple.

"A work of art as priceless as your bond. Best wishes on your wedding."

After seeing the intimate wedding photos of my fiancé and his adoptive sister, I ordered them a custom wedding gift and decided to end the engagement.

I sent the message, then turned to leave the bridal shop.

Suddenly, a heavy lighting rig from a nearby photography set came crashing down.

"Ah!" I flinched back. The sharp metal edge scraped my arm, and blood welled up instantly.

"Are you okay?" Caius’s voice. But he wasn’t running to me.

He was shielding the girl who’d "accidentally" knocked it over, frantically checking her for injuries.

Fiorella leaned against his chest, her eyes wide and teary as she stared at my bleeding arm.

"Ilaria, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to," she whispered, her voice was a fragile whisper, like it might shatter on the wind.

It was obvious. She’d knocked it over while fooling around with Caius.

I looked at Caius’s worried face, and my heart ached for a split second.

Then I pressed down on the cut. Blood seeped through my fingers. I watched it, feeling the last of my love for him drain away with it.

"It's fine."

Caius finally looked at me, his gaze flickering over my wound, completely flat.

"Well, if you weren't glued to your phone, maybe you would've noticed something that big falling. How is this Fiorella's fault? She twisted her ankle trying to save you."

Then he brought his heel down on my phone.

The crack of the screen echoed in the silent studio.

"I told you last night, after the gala," he said, his voice cold steel. "Your attention belongs to me. Not this piece of junk. If it distracts you, it's gone."

On him? So I was supposed to watch my fiancé fit another woman into my wedding dress?

The gala... He'd had me pinned to the bed all night, punishing me, just because I glanced at a painter. And he was still mad?

I watched the screen spiderweb into a thousand pieces. The usual fire wasn't there. I just met his gaze, my voice flat. "You're right. It's gone."

Caius’s brow tightened. My calm surprised him. He didn't like it.

He was used to me fighting back. My fire proved I still cared.

This quiet obedience was a rebellion of its own, and he felt his grip on me slip.

But he just turned his back on me, pulling a trembling Fiorella into his chest and murmuring to her in that low, soft voice he never used for me.

Fiorella stroked his arm. "Caius, don't be so mean to Ilaria."

Before, I would have rushed over, ready for a fight, even if it only earned me his cold dismissal.

But this time, I was just tired.

Caius had his driver bring the car around to take me home.

But first, we stopped in front of a high-security penthouse owned by the Falcone family.

The one Caius gave to Fiorella.

He carefully unbuckled her seatbelt, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her into the building.

I didn't miss the triumphant, mocking look Fiorella shot me over his shoulder.

At 7 PM, I was still sitting in the back of Caius's car, staring up at the lit penthouse window.

They'd been in there for two hours.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Miss Rossi, maybe you should head home? The boss might be in there for a while."

"I'll wait."

Night fell. The neon lights of Chicago flickered on. He still didn't come out.

I debated with myself for a moment, then my resolve hardened. I needed one last nail for this relationship's coffin.

I rang the bell and waited.

I knew he'd heard me. This was one of his games. Make me wait. Wear me down.

After a long time, the door finally opened.

It was Caius. He leaned against the frame, and when he saw me, his face tightened. He was pissed that I'd broken his control.

"What are you doing up here?" His voice was a low growl, a clear accusation.

He hadn't forgotten me. Of course not.

He was punishing me. Making me sit in that cold car, making me think about how I'd stepped out of line today.

He expected me to wait until he was good and ready to remember me, to come get me like he was doing me a favor.

I looked past his shoulder. I could smell food cooking.

"Ah!" A shriek from inside. Fiorella. "Caius! I cut myself!"

His expression shifted instantly. The annoyance he felt for me vanished, replaced by raw panic for her.

He spun around and rushed to the kitchen without a second thought.

"Fiorella, let me see!"

I watched his retreating back, the long, winding scar that snaked across his shoulder blade. He got that taking a bullet for me.

Five years ago, he’d thrown his body in front of mine. His white shirt turned red.

He’d said, "No one gets to hurt you."

I quietly closed the door.

I walked home. The two-hour trek was my punishment.

Two hours. I thought about how thrilled I was when Caius and I got engaged.

And the disappointment every time he ditched me to take care of his adoptive sister.

This time, I finally saw the truth.

Marco, the butler, met me at the door. "Miss, you're back so late. Mr. Falcone called an hour ago. He said to call him back."

"I heard you." I slipped off my heels. My feet were blistered and bleeding.

Marco looked at me, worried. "Miss, are you alright?"

"I'm fine. You can go to bed."

I went straight upstairs and shut my door.

On the nightstand was a photo from our trip to Hawaii. Caius’s arm was around my waist, his smile picture-perfect.

Except he wasn't looking at the camera. He was looking at Fiorella, who’d insisted on coming with us to be our "photographer."

Caius came back early the next morning. I was drinking coffee, looking at an artist-in-residence invitation from a top New York gallery.

He was in a black suit, his tie perfect. He looked like he was heading to an important meeting.

"Why didn't you call me back?" He sat down across from me.

"No phone." I cut into the steak on my plate, my voice even.

"What?"

"You smashed it yesterday, remember?"

Caius looked uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to say something, but his phone rang.

Fiorella’s special ringtone—a soft lullaby.

In the past, I would have snatched the phone, my eyes red with tears, trying to hang up.

And he would have just left, coldly. This time was no different.

He dropped my hand and answered, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. "Don't worry, wait for me at home. I'll be there to get you soon."

After hanging up, he picked up my freshly cleaned gun from the table.

He was obsessive about his weapons being cleaned daily. It was a task that always fell to me. One I never failed.

He was used to me having everything ready for him. He took the gun without a word of thanks, as if it were his birthright.

"I have time for dinner tonight."

It was his version of a peace offering. A command, telling me to drop the attitude.

To him, spending time with me was a reward. The highest payment he could offer. It was supposed to erase every time he chose her.

As he rushed out, a notification popped up on my laptop.

"Miss Rossi, we didn't finish the photoshoot yesterday. When would be a good time to reschedule?"

I was about to say no, but then I had a better idea. I forwarded them Fiorella’s contact info.

"The bride has changed. Contact her."

After sending it, I clicked the confirmation button for the New York gallery.

I would start in three days.

To marry Caius, I gave up studying in Europe. I gave up a curator position at a top gallery.

I stayed here, running the underground gallery that laundered money from his smuggled art.

I was done with this life.

I bought a new phone from a corner store.

No name, no registration. No history.

A clean slate. Exactly what I needed for the new life I was about to start.

At 3 PM, I went to the family's private cigar club to get some files.

I pushed open the door to the private room and saw something I shouldn't have.

Caius was holding a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal.

A bottle of 50-year-old Glenfiddich. Fifty grand.

Fiorella was beside him, a single drop of water on her fingertip.

"Caius, a drop of water makes the whiskey bloom," she said with a sweet smile, letting the drop fall into his glass.

Caius looked at her, his eyes full of affection. "Whatever you say."

Then he downed the glass.

My hand tightened on the doorknob, my knuckles white.

Three years ago, I made the same suggestion.

He was on edge over a deal gone wrong. I just wanted him to relax.

"What do you know?" he'd roared, smashing the glass against the wall. Shards flew, and one sliced my calf. "Shut your mouth!"

Blood ran down my leg and stained the carpet. He didn't even look.

Now, the old scar on my calf throbbed with a phantom pain.

I always thought he hated anyone changing his routine. Turns out, he just hated it when I was the one to suggest it.

I tried to leave quietly, but Fiorella’s sickly-sweet voice stopped me.

"Caius, Ilaria’s been spying on us for a while. You should pour her a glass, or she'll blame me for stealing you again."

At her words, Caius frowned and shot me a dirty look. He stepped in front of Fiorella, shielding her.

"Finish your drink, have something to eat, then go home. Father knows you're with me."

Fiorella blushed and nodded, taking a small bite of cake that Caius fed her.

Only after all that did he bother to look at me.

"Wait." Caius stood up. "The gun you cleaned last time. The weighting is off."

I paused. "What's wrong with it?"

"The trigger pull is too heavy. The sight is off by three millimeters." He spoke to me like a screw-up, a subordinate. "How many times have I told you? Details are life and death."

Fiorella stroked his arm. "Caius, don't be so harsh. Ilaria is trying her best."

"Trying?" Caius scoffed. "This is her only value to me. If she can't even get this right, I'll find someone who can."

He took my devotion for granted. One small mistake, and he threatened to replace me.

Too bad his threats meant nothing to me anymore.

"Then find someone else."

His face darkened. Before he could say another word, I had already turned and walked away.

That evening, the family gathering was at the Falcone estate’s private shooting range.

This was where the family trained, where they showed their teeth. The air smelled of smoke and gunpowder.

When I arrived, Caius was teaching Fiorella how to shoot, his arms wrapped around her from behind.

His large hands covered her small ones, his voice patient and gentle in a way I’d never heard.

"Don't be scared. Relax. Breathe with me."

Bang! A perfect shot. Dead center.

Fiorella squealed and threw herself into Caius’s arms. "I did it!"

The family members around them clapped and cheered, praising her natural talent.

Caius held her, beaming with pride, showing her off like a rare jewel.

Then his eyes found me. They turned cold and hard.

"Ilaria," his voice cut through my earplugs, echoing across the range. "Get over here. Show Fiorella how to do a rapid-fire drill on the moving targets."

It wasn't a lesson. It was a command. A test.

I stepped up to the line and picked up a gun, my heart frozen by the sheer whiplash of his tone.

Deep breath. Raise the gun. Aim.

Maybe my mind was somewhere else, or maybe my hand was shaking, but my first shot missed the bullseye.

The range went silent.

Caius strode over, snatched the gun from my hand, his eyes filled with disappointment and disgust.

"You can't even do the basics?" he snapped in front of everyone. It was like a slap in the face. "All the time I spent teaching you, and this is how you repay me? I guess you really are only good for cleaning guns."

He slammed the gun onto the counter. The metallic clang was jarring.

I just stood there, the humiliation worse than any physical blow.

I walked out, their mocking stares burning holes in my back. Ten minutes later, my phone rang.

It was Caius, his voice a command.

"Bring me a new holster. Black leather."

"When do you need it?"

"Now."

I stared at my pale reflection in the dark screen. "Got it."

Back home, I went to my workshop.

It was filled with holsters I’d made for him. Each one hand-stitched, every detail filled with years of dedication.

I found the newest one. Black cowhide, with his initials stitched on the inside.

I remembered the first one I ever made him.

He’d injured his trigger finger in a shootout. It was wrapped in a thick bandage, and he couldn't get a proper grip.

I stayed up for three nights straight, designing a custom holster that would work with his injured hand.

"You made this?" he’d asked, taking it from me.

"Yeah."

He examined every stitch, tested the feel. "Not bad."

It was the first and last compliment he ever gave me on my craft.

The next day, a velvet box appeared on my vanity.

Inside was a Cartier bracelet. Platinum and diamonds, every stone glittering.

He’d clasped the bracelet around my wrist, his voice a low whisper. "You are my masterpiece, Ilaria. The best thing I ever built."

I thought it meant something. I thought it meant he finally saw me.

I wore it almost every day, like a badge of his approval.

Now I knew the truth. It was a reward. A treat for a useful tool.

But it didn't matter. I was leaving in two days.

I walked towards Caius’s apartment, holster in hand.

My phone buzzed. A new social media post.

I tapped it open and froze.

It was a selfie of Fiorella, filling the whole screen.

She was smiling sweetly, a massive diamond necklace around her neck, each stone blindingly brilliant.

The caption: "Thank you to the man I love most for the most precious gift in the world."

I stopped walking, staring at that necklace.

I’d never seen anything so extravagant, so dazzling.

Even with my limited knowledge of jewelry, I knew it had to be worth a fortune.

I screenshotted it and sent it to my friend Renata, who deals in high-end luxury.

"Any idea what this is worth?"

Renata replied almost instantly. "Oh my god! Isn't that the main piece from last month's underground auction? Natural pink diamond necklace. The bidding started at ten million! It probably sold for close to thirty!"

Thirty million.

The strength drained from my legs.

Then, Renata sent another picture.

"Oh, and that necklace came with a 'gift with purchase.' This platinum and diamond bracelet. It goes for two hundred grand on its own!"

The bracelet in the photo was identical to the one on my wrist.

So that’s what I was worth. After everything, all my devotion... I was the freebie.

For him, I gave up my scholarship in Europe.

For him, I learned to bake, just because he said that after an attack, the only thing he wanted was a sweet treat from me.

For him, I learned to maintain his guns, rubbing my fingerprints raw.

For him, I even learned to gamble, winning him money in those smoke-filled, grimy underground casinos.

My gallery laundered over two hundred million in dirty money for him over the years.

But in his eyes, I was still just the student he’d once sponsored, the charity case he’d pitied enough to make his girlfriend.

He never thought I was good enough for him.

In Caius’s apartment, I handed him the holster.

He glanced at it. "We didn't finish the wedding photos. We're going back tomorrow."

"I can't. I have something."

He looked up at me, his eyes turning cold. "What's more important than our wedding photos?"

"An exhibition in New York."

"Cancel it." His voice was a clear threat.

I didn't answer.

Suddenly, Caius was on his feet, closing the distance between us.

His hand clamped on my jaw, yanking me towards him.

"Ilaria, what's gotten into you lately?"

Before I could answer, he crushed his lips against mine.

It was a kiss of possession and anger. I tasted blood.

His phone rang. That damned lullaby.

Caius immediately let me go and answered. "Fiorella? What's wrong?"

"Caius, I feel sick. Can you come be with me?"

He glanced at me, the tenderness in his eyes gone. "I'm on my way."

The door slammed shut.

See? Even with all his possessiveness, Fiorella was always his first choice.

I wiped the blood from my lip and started packing.

At 3 AM, there was a knock on my bedroom door.

Caius stood there, reeking of alcohol. "Fiorella's sick. She wants your tiramisu."

I looked at his tired face. "Now?"

"She has a fever. Sweets are the only thing that makes her feel better." He pushed his way in. "You know how fragile she is."

There were a thousand world-class bakeries in Chicago. Why did it have to be me?

But I got up and went to the kitchen anyway.

Caius followed me into the kitchen, backseat driving my every move. "Remember, not too much coffee, she hates the bitter taste. And sprinkle the cocoa powder evenly, she likes it to look pretty..."

"I know what she likes," I cut him off and started working.

An hour later, a perfect tiramisu was ready.

I wrote the recipe down on a piece of paper and handed it to him. "If you need it again, any pastry chef can make it with this."

Caius stared at it, then suddenly grabbed my hand.

"Ilaria, you're being weird today." There was a hint of panic in his voice. "I brought home my favorite dress for you. The wedding will be at the family chapel. I've seen how hard you've worked all these years..."

I gently pulled my hand away and gave him a small, empty smile.

"Go to your Fiorella. She's waiting."

I pushed him out the door.

Caius stood in the hallway, a flicker of confusion and unease crossing his face.

Less than ten minutes after the door closed, my phone buzzed.

A video from Fiorella.

In the clip, she and Caius were on the sofa at the cigar club.

She took a spoonful of tiramisu and deliberately smeared it on the corner of his mouth, then stood on her toes to lick it off his lips.

Caius didn't push her away.

The caption: "This cheap thing is so bland on its own. Only tastes good when you share it with the man you love. Don't get the wrong idea, big sister. We're just playing ;)"

I watched them, and the part of my heart that had been aching for weeks finally went silent. It was dead.

I grabbed my suitcase and my burner phone. With one last look at the room I’d lived in for seven years, I switched off the light. And with a final click of the lock, I closed the door on him, on us, and on the girl I used to be.

It was over.