I was finishing up the last of my packing, smoothing folded clothes into a half-zipped suitcase, when the doorbell rang.

For a second, I paused. My heart jumped. Lorenzo?

I checked my phone. No missed calls. No messages. With a slow breath, I headed toward the front door.

A large white box rested neatly on the welcome mat, wrapped in a wide gold ribbon. It was heavy. Elegant. My name was written across the top in bold, flowing calligraphy. No card. No explanation.

Just my name.

Curiosity pulled at me as I carried it inside. I placed it on the table, sat down, and slowly lifted the lid.

My breath caught.

Inside was a wedding dress.

Not just any dress — my dress.

The exact style I had sketched years ago, back when I still believed Celia and I would stand before the Commission someday, swearing a real blood oath. Ivory silk that caught the light softly. Lace sleeves so fine and delicate they looked like they'd dissolve at a touch. I reached out, hands trembling, and brushed my fingers over the bodice.

A small tag had been stitched on the inside.

Seraphina — embroidered by hand in gold thread.

My vision blurred.

Was this real?

Was this… him?

For a heartbeat, my mind ran wild with dangerous hope. After all the distance. The coldness. The betrayal. Was this Celia's way of saying sorry? Was he finally ready to give me what he'd taken away — a true ceremony, a witnessed union, a name that meant something before the Families? Was he ready to make things right without saying a word?

I let myself believe it.

Just for a moment.

I stepped into the gown, careful and slow, holding my breath as the fabric fell against my skin like it had been waiting for me. It fit almost too perfectly. I turned toward the mirror, hands pressed against my chest, eyes shining with fragile, foolish hope.

That's when the door flew open.

"Seraphina, what the hell do you think you're doing?!"

I jumped.

Celia stood there, his face dark with anger and disbelief. He crossed the room in long strides and grabbed the fabric at my shoulder, yanking it away so roughly it almost tore.

"Why are you wearing that dress?"

"I—" My voice shook. "Isn't this… for me? My name is on it. It's the design I made. The one I dreamed of. I thought maybe… we were finally having a real ceremony?"

A sharp, humorless laugh left him.

"A ceremony? Have you lost your mind? We're already bound."

"Then why send this here?" I whispered, my throat tight.

"It's not for you," he snapped, brushing his hands over the fabric like he was cleaning it. "It's for Vera. She's always wanted a proper blood-oath ceremony. A real one, witnessed by the Families. We're giving her that. She deserves it. She's sick."

My body went cold.

"She's sick," he repeated, like that single sentence explained everything.

"She wants to walk down the aisle," he went on. "Wear the dress. Have the ceremony she was supposed to have five years ago. This was her dream."

"But it was mine too," I said quietly. "I designed it. That was my sketch. Why give her something that belonged to me?"

Voices came from behind him.

Marco and Enzo stepped into the room. The hallway beyond them was dim, the sconces along the estate corridor casting long shadows. One of the soldiers posted near the landing glanced in and looked away fast — men in this house knew when not to see things.

"What are you two shouting about?" Marco asked. His eyes landed on the dress and he scoffed. "Oh. That. Come on, Seraphina, you're not dying. Let her have it. If she likes your design, you can just make another one."

Enzo nodded like that settled everything.

"You always turn things into drama," he said. "Just let her have this one day. At least she deserves that much."

"She deserves… my dream?" The words barely came out.

Vera appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a soft shawl, playing the part of fragile perfectly. She leaned against the frame as though standing cost her something, one hand resting lightly against the inside of her left wrist.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her voice trembling. "I just… I just want to be a bride. I want to walk down the aisle once before…" She stopped, letting the sentence hang. Her eyes filled with the same tears she'd used since we were children. "I won't take him from you forever. Just for a moment. Just let me borrow him."

I stared at her.

At all of them.

Something inside me went very still.

"You're all unbelievable," I said quietly.

Vera's lips trembled.

"Do whatever you want," I continued, my voice flat. "Have your ceremony. Take the dress. Use my design. Borrow my husband. Take everything. I'm done."

I turned and walked out.

My legs felt numb, but my chest burned like it was being carved open.

Back in my room, I opened drawers, closets, boxes. I pulled out shirts, photos, old letters — every piece of the girl I used to be. Every soft memory I'd guarded. I carried them outside one by one.

Behind the estate, past the garden wall where the soldiers never patrolled after dark, there was an old metal barrel.

I dropped it all inside.

And I lit the match.

Flames rose quickly, hungry and bright. Smoke twisted upward, carrying everything I'd once believed in. I watched the fire eat through photos of Celia and me, through handwritten love letters, through the old ceremony-dress sketches I thought I'd one day wear.

I remembered my brothers promising to protect me. I remembered believing I belonged there. I remembered Vera clinging to my arm, whispering that I was her favorite.

It was all a lie.

Every single bit of it.

And as the last fragile page of my sketchbook curled into ash, arms wrapped around me from behind.

"Sera…," Celia murmured. His voice was low, close, breath warm at my ear. "I'm sorry. I know this hurts. I didn't want things to go this far. Just… do this for her. She's sick. You're stronger than this. You can handle it."

I said nothing.

"Let me make it up to you," he whispered. "Tomorrow, just us. A proper date. I'll fix everything. I swear."

I was too tired to argue.

"…Fine," I said quietly.

His breath left in relief.

"Thank you," he said, pressing a soft kiss into my hair.

That night, I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to bury the ache in my chest.

But just as I began to drift—

"Seraphina! Get up!"

I sat upright, heart pounding.

Celia was at my bedside, eyes wide and urgent.

"We need your blood," he said quickly. "Your sister needs a transfusion. You're a match."

My throat went dry.

"What…?"

"She's deteriorating," he said, already grabbing my arm. "Don't make this difficult. Be useful for once. Be her blood bank."

"No." My voice came out steady as I pulled my arm back. "I'm not giving her my blood."

Celia's expression darkened immediately. "Don't do this again, Seraphina. She has leukemia. She needs transfusions. You're compatible."

"That isn't my problem," I replied, refusing to budge. "I'm not the only one barely holding it together."

Marco stepped closer, jaw tight. "How can you be this selfish? She's dying, Seraphina."

"She isn't dying," I shot back. "She's pretending, like she always did when we were kids just to avoid chores and homework."

Enzo raised his voice. "That's enough. You sound crazy."

Before I could react, hands were on my arms.

All of them.

I struggled. I kicked. I twisted. But I was still weak, still bruised, still exhausted, and there were three of them. They dragged me out of the compound like I didn't belong to myself anymore, shoved me into the back seat of the black sedan, and drove straight to the Marchetti-operated clinic on the East Side.

I barely had time to breathe.

Within an hour, I was strapped down.

No one asked for my consent.

No one listened when I begged them to stop.

Needles. Tubes. Bags filling with dark red liquid while the Family physician exchanged uneasy looks with the nurse at the number of vials being ordered.

The world tipped sideways.

And then everything went black.

When I woke up, I felt empty.

Like someone had scooped the life out of me and left the shell behind. My limbs were heavy. My chest felt cold. My head spun as my eyes adjusted to the light.

The first face I saw was the last one I ever wanted.

Vera.

She sat beside my bed, holding a small tray. The clinic room smelled of antiseptic and lilies she must have brought herself. Always staging.

"You're awake," she said softly. "I brought you something to eat."

For a split second, my heart almost believed her.

Then everything came rushing back.

I swiped the tray away. The plate hit the floor with a sharp crash.

The door flew open.

Celia. Enzo. Marco.

"What's wrong with you?" Marco barked. "She went through the trouble of bringing you food."

"You're unbelievable," Celia added. "She's trying to fix things and you act like this?"

"You forced me!" I shouted, my throat burning. "You held me down and took my blood!"

"Seraphina…" Vera murmured, her voice trembling. Her fingers drifted to the inside of her left wrist, pressing lightly against the pulse point. "Please don't be like this. You're my sister. I only wanted peace between us."

She stepped closer and leaned in as if to hug me.

Her lips brushed my ear.

"You see it now?" she whispered sweetly. "They've already chosen. So behave."

My body went still. Celia's stare turned sharp. "Apologize. Now."

My hands clenched the sheets. "I didn't do anything wrong."

Enzo stepped forward slightly. "Careful." My throat tightened.

"…Fine," I said quietly. "I'm sorry."

Not because I meant it.

Because I didn't have the strength to keep fighting.

They relaxed. Satisfied. Like they'd corrected something broken.

I closed my eyes and turned my face to the wall, pretending to sleep, pretending I couldn't hear Vera's soft fake crying or my brothers' murmured comfort.

I stayed that way until they finally left.

That night, my phone buzzed.

Lorenzo: Tomorrow's the day. Are you still in?

I stared at the screen and typed back.

Yes.

The following morning, I didn't want to leave the clinic.

My body still ached. My heart felt worse. Every part of me wanted to disappear.

But Celia didn't ask. He told me.

"We're doing this," he said coldly. "You owe it to Vera. You promised. Stop acting like a child."

So I went.

Not because I wanted to.

Because saying no only meant more yelling, more blame, more guilt shoved down my throat like bitter medicine.

I wore a soft, pale dress, the same one from our very first date. Back when I believed in things like forever. Back when he held my hand like it meant something. Back when I thought I mattered.

He said to meet him at a trattoria on neutral ground. Just us. To fix things. So I waited.

I arrived early. I wasn't sure if I hoped he'd show up… or if I hoped he wouldn't.

The waitress brought water.

Then came back. Then came back again. Minutes turned into an hour. Then another.

"I'll be waiting for someone," I told her with a small smile. "He should be here soon."

He wasn't. Neither were Marco or Enzo.

I checked my phone. Nothing.

The water got warm. The music changed. My back started to hurt from sitting too straight, for too long.

I kept looking at the door.

Maybe now. Maybe now. Then my phone vibrated.

Vera.

Of course.

Vera: Looks like they can't make it, sister. They're busy… with me. Enjoy your dinner alone.

Below the message were photos of them together. The four of them at the compound. Laughing. Vera at the center of the table, right where I used to sit.

Once, I would've cried. This time, I didn't.

I stood up calmly and called the manager over.

"I need to leave a few things here," I said.

From my bag, I placed a small bundle on the table.

A copy of our unsanctioned marriage papers, the documents that had never been sworn before witnesses, never recognized by anyone who mattered. The clinic report confirming the loss of my baby. The ring he'd given me five years ago.

"If he comes asking," I said quietly, "tell him Seraphina Carbone doesn't exist anymore."

My thumb pressed against the bare hollow of my throat where a pendant once hung. There was nothing there. There hadn't been for a long time.

I turned and walked out.

The bell above the door chimed once, clean and final.

Lorenzo was already waiting on the sidewalk.

Just like he promised.

A dark car idled at the curb behind him, engine running, one of his soldiers standing at attention by the rear door. Lorenzo ignored all of it. He stepped toward me and held out his hand.

"Ready?"

I nodded. "Completely."

He led me to the car, and we drove straight for the private airstrip the Marchetti family kept outside the city.

Inside the car, I looked at my phone. Old photos, old messages, names that no longer meant anything.

I opened the SIM tray. I removed it. I dropped it into the console bin.

Gone.

As I boarded the plane beside Lorenzo, a calm I hadn't felt in years settled into my chest.

Tomorrow, they might notice I'm gone. They might panic. They might search.

But they will never find me.

Never again.

The estate was unusually quiet when Celia, Vera, Marco, and Enzo returned late that night. Laughter echoed through the marble foyer as they fumbled with the heavy front door, still riding the warmth of their late-night outing. They had gone for drinks after dinner at one of the Family's restaurants downtown, enjoying themselves far more than they probably should have.

Celia stepped inside first, reaching for the light switch on the paneled wall.

Nothing.

The foyer remained bathed in shadows.

"What the hell?" Celia muttered, flicking the switch again. The lights finally blinked on, and the front room came into full view.

It was a mess. Cushions scattered on the floor. Dishes still on the table from the previous afternoon. A faint trail of mud leading from the door. The entire estate looked like it hadn't been touched all day.

"The fuck is this?" Celia growled, stepping inside. "Seraphina! What the hell is this?!"

No answer.

He made a move to rush toward the stairs, but Vera stopped him, her hand on his arm. "Come on," she said with a light laugh. "Don't ruin the night. She's probably just sulking again. Sleeping, maybe."

"She always does this when she wants attention," Marco added, removing his shoes carelessly.

Enzo chuckled. "Yeah, man, just let her be. She'll clean this up in the morning like she always does."

Celia hesitated. "But this mess—"

Vera tugged his arm gently. "Come to bed with me," she whispered, pressing her lips to his ear. "Don't let her ruin our night." Then she laughed softly, adding, "She's probably just pouting somewhere, pretending to be important. You know how dramatic she can be."

Celia didn't argue after that. With one last glance toward the stairs, he let himself be pulled into the bedroom by Vera.

Once inside, Vera unzipped her dress slowly, letting it fall with theatrical grace. "You know," she purred, sliding her arms around his neck, "this room used to be hers, didn't it?" She smirked, tilting her head. "Poor thing. Must be hard to realize she's been replaced even in bed."

Moments later, laughter turned into moans.

And while the rest of the estate remained dark and disordered, behind that closed door, Celia and Vera indulged in their pleasure, completely forgetting about the woman who was once his wife, her presence erased with every kiss and whispered mockery.

The next morning, sunlight pierced through the curtains.

Celia groaned, blinking into the brightness, then shot up. "Shit!" he muttered. "My meeting!"

He had a sit-down with the Morettis at ten. The kind of meeting a Don didn't walk into late unless he wanted to signal disrespect, and the Morettis were not a family that forgave easily.

Vera stirred lazily beside him, still under the covers. "What meeting?"

"You didn't wake me up!" he barked.

She yawned, stretching her arms. "I didn't know I was supposed to."

He flung the sheets off and began pulling on his pants. "Seraphina should've woken me up. Where the hell is she?"

He stomped into the hallway. "Seraphina!" he yelled, but there was no reply.

His brow furrowed.

He checked her room.

Empty.

No sign of her.

That's when Marco and Enzo emerged from their rooms, still half-dressed.

"What's up?" Marco asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Seraphina's gone," Celia said tightly. "She's not in her room."

"Maybe she went out early," Vera offered from behind him. "Come on, she's probably just sulking. Again."

They all went downstairs, expecting breakfast at least. But the kitchen was silent. The long table in the dining room was bare. The sink untouched. The fridge unopened. There was no breakfast.

Not even coffee.

"What the actual—" Celia slammed his hand against the table. "She didn't even cook?!"

He pulled out his phone. Dialed her number.

No signal.

"Not reachable," he hissed. "Where the fuck is she?"

Vera twirled her hair and sighed. "She probably went out early to buy groceries or something."

"No." Celia's voice was sharper now. "I know her. Seraphina never leaves this place messy. She always wakes me up before meetings. She never lets a day pass without making food. This isn't like her—"

He paused. A sick feeling clawed at his chest.

His mind flashed to something. Something small, insignificant at the time.

"Shit." He froze. "Last night. The dinner…"

"What dinner?" Enzo asked.

"The dinner date. I told her we'd go out."

"Oh," Vera said slowly, glancing away. She touched the inside of her left wrist, fingers resting on the pulse point. "You mean you think… she was still waiting for you?"

"She wouldn't do that," Marco scoffed. "She's not that pathetic."

"Yeah," Enzo chuckled. "She must've known you were just saying that to calm her down. No one waits that long."

But Celia wasn't listening anymore. He was already grabbing his car keys and storming out the door.

He sped through the city, heart pounding against his ribs. The morning traffic on the boulevard blurred past. When he reached the trattoria, he rushed inside.

"Excuse me," he said to the waitress behind the counter. "Last night, there was a woman here. Seraphina. Did she say anything? Did she wait… or do you know where she is?"

The woman blinked, then nodded. "Yes. I remember her because she waited for more than hours before leaving. She left this for someone named Celia. I think it's you because you have the same description as she said."

She handed him a white envelope. Celia opened it with shaking hands.

Inside was her wedding ring.

A folded document bearing the seal of their union, marked across the front in Seraphina's handwriting: Invalid.

And a single sheet of paper. A death certificate.

For their unborn child.

The world seemed to tilt.

He could hear nothing but the pounding in his ears. The way the paper trembled in his grip.

"Before she left," the woman added quietly, "she told us… 'Give this to him. And let him know he'll never find me again.'"

Celia stood there, frozen.

The envelope in his hands felt heavier than any burden he had ever known.