Seraphina POV:

Isabella's voice, feigning intoxication and distress, was a calculated performance-a weaponized fragility I knew all too well. "Please, Dante? I'm scared to go home by myself."

Dante's hand, which had been resting on the seat between us, clenched into a fist. His frustration mounting, he pulled the car to a sudden stop at the side of the road.

"'Don't cross the line, Isabella,' he warned, his voice a low, firm warning. 'I have a wife.'"

For a foolish, stupid second, a sliver of hope lodged itself in my throat. He had said it. He had drawn a line.

Then, Isabella started to cry. Soft, broken sobs designed to melt his resolve. They always did.

He let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Fine. Where are you?"

He turned to me, his expression a war of apology and command. His jaw was tight, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes held a flicker of regret before it was extinguished by the coldness of his order. "We're going to pick up Isabella."

The hope inside me shattered like glass. He wasn't choosing me. He was just forcing me to watch him choose her. I nodded, the motion stiff and robotic. What else could I do?

We pulled up to a private, members-only club where Isabella was waiting on the curb. The moment Dante stepped out of the car, she threw herself at him, clinging to his arm like a drowning woman.

"Dante, I knew you'd come for me," she whispered, the words pitched just loud enough to slice through the air and find me in the car.

He tried to push her away. "Isabella, stop."

She just clung tighter, burying her face in his chest. "I can't. I missed you so much."

He sighed again, a sound of pure resignation, and his arms came up to wrap around her. "I know," he said, his voice soft. "When have I ever been able to say no to you?"

From inside the car, I watched the scene unfold, a cold, heavy weight settling in the pit of my stomach. This was my marriage. A spectator sport.

A sharp rap on my window made me jump. It was Dante. His face was a cold, impersonal mask, wiped clean of any emotion.

"Move over," he ordered, his tone matter-of-fact. "You're driving. Take care of her."

My voice was barely a whisper. "Are you asking me to be your chauffeur?"

His glare was my only answer. He opened the back door for Isabella, then walked around to the passenger side. His command echoed in the silent car.

"Drive."

Under the scornful, pitying eyes of his security detail parked across the street, I slid over to the driver's seat. The leather was still warm from his body. Humiliation burned in my cheeks.

In the back, Isabella settled beside Dante, leaning into him with a possessive familiarity, her head finding its place on his shoulder as if it had never left.

"Isabella," he warned, his voice tight.

She pouted, pulling back slightly. "Fine. But you have to help me look at new houses tomorrow. My old place has too many bad memories."

I saw his eyes flick to mine in the rearview mirror. It was a glance of apology, of guilt, but it meant nothing. It never did.

"Alright," he agreed, and the tenderness in his voice was a physical blow. It was a tone he had never once used with me.

When we arrived at the sprawling Ricci estate, Isabella's parents rushed out to greet the car. They beamed at Dante, pulling him into warm hugs as their eyes passed right over me, as if I were nothing more than part of the car's upholstery.

"Dante, son! We were so worried," Mrs. Ricci gushed.

Isabella playfully slapped her father's arm. "Daddy, you love Dante more than you love me."

And then I saw it. A smile. A real, genuine smile that reached Dante's eyes, something I had never seen in the seven years we had been married. He followed Isabella inside, disappearing into the warm glow of her family home.

I was forgotten in the car, the engine still running.

Minutes later, my phone buzzed. A text from Dante.

"Go home without me."

*

Seraphina POV:

The rain began to fall as I drove through the empty streets, each drop on the windshield blurring the city lights into a watercolor wash, bleeding together much like my memories.

My mother had worked as a housekeeper for the De Luca family for over a decade. Her silence, the result of a childhood fever, made her an easy target, yet it was her salary that sent me to the most elite private school in Chicago. The same school as Isabella Ricci-who, in a cruel twist of fate, was also my roommate.

I was the "help's daughter," an outcast in a world of wealth and privilege. But I learned to stand my ground. When others tried to intimidate me, I found ways to show them I wouldn't be broken. I learned that to survive, I had to be resilient.

The worst was my senior year. Isabella and her friends cornered me in the empty auditorium. They surrounded me on the stage, their taunts echoing in the vast space as they threatened to orchestrate a public scandal so humiliating it would destroy my scholarship and my future.

Suddenly, a voice cut through their laughter. "Stop."

It was Dante. He was a few years older, already an impressive figure in the halls of our school. He took a step forward, and his associate, who had been standing in the wings, lowered his phone. "That's enough," Dante said. It wasn't a request. It was a command.

He pulled me to my feet and took me to the estate's private infirmary to check for injuries. It was the first time anyone in that world had shown me a shred of decency. It was the first time my heart stirred for him.

I started watching him from the shadows, a secret, naive crush taking root in my heart. But all I ever saw was the way he looked at Isabella, a possessive, all-consuming fire that left no room for anyone else.

So I buried my feelings. I poured all my energy into my studies, graduating at the top of my class from a prestigious university with a degree in architectural design.

The day I graduated, I found myself back at the De Luca estate. It was the day of Dante and Isabella's wedding. The ninth attempt. The music was playing, the guests were seated, but the bride was gone. A single text was all she'd left: *Ran off with some pretty boy. Don't wait up.*

The public humiliation was the final straw. Dante's legendary composure finally fractured. His cold, furious eyes scanned the crowd of guests, and then they landed on me, standing awkwardly near the back. He strode straight up to me.

"Marry me," he said.

Stunned into silence, I could only stare at him. He was the most powerful man I knew, and he was asking me, the housekeeper's daughter, to be his wife. For a wild, foolish moment, the girl who'd watched him from the shadows screamed that this was my only chance. I hesitated, then gave a single, fateful nod.

I married a man who didn't even know my first name. And just like that, the contract was sealed.

For seven years, our marriage was a contract. A cold, respectful arrangement. He was a good provider. When my mother was diagnosed with pneumothorax, a collapsed lung, he flew in the best medical team in the country, and they saved her life. He showered me with extravagant gifts and paraded me at public functions, as the perfect, beautiful wife on the arm of the Don.

I was a fool. I once believed these were signs of his growing affection. I thought that maybe, over time, he could come to love me.

That foolish hope died a month ago.

I was passing his study when I heard him talking to his Consigliere.

"Isabella is coming back," Dante said, his voice flat. "She's single now."

The Consigliere was hesitant. "And Seraphina?"

I held my breath, waiting.

"She was always a placeholder," Dante's voice was like ice. "A convenient solution. The moment Isabella wants to come back-for real-Seraphina is gone."

*

Seraphina POV:

His words-a convenient solution-were a final, shattering blow. I finally understood the iron-clad marriage contract I'd signed. It wasn't to protect me; it was to ensure his clean, easy exit.

I decided then and there to leave this three-person tragedy. I would not be cast aside. I would walk away on my own terms.

In the days that followed, Dante was rarely home. He was never at his official businesses, yet images of him and Isabella began to surface on social media-a daily torment. Photos of them at exclusive restaurants, on private jets, at lakeside retreats. Each picture felt like a deliberate sting.

The pain didn't fade. It hardened, crystallizing into a numb, cold resolve. I walked into the grand living room and took down our wedding portrait; in it, he looked stern and I looked terrified. I couldn't bear the sight of his face anymore.

I began packing the gifts he'd given me over the years-jewelry, designer bags, things meant to be seen, not felt. While searching for a box in his study, I pulled open a drawer and froze.

Inside, a pile of unopened boxes lay in perfect, mocking order, all neatly wrapped. Every birthday, every anniversary, every Christmas gift I had ever given him. A custom-made tie I'd commissioned. A leather-bound journal I'd embossed with his initials. A framed sketch of his favorite view from the estate. All of them, untouched.

The realization was a cold, final blow. My affection, my thoughts, my very existence-they were worthless to him.

His phone call came later that day.

"Isabella is having a housewarming party tonight," he said, his voice distant.

"You and I both know Isabella and I are not on good terms," I replied calmly.

There was a long pause. When he spoke again, his voice was cold. "It was her idea to invite you. Do you need me to send a car?"

I let out a short, bitter laugh. He only remembered my existence for Isabella's sake. "No. I'll drive myself."

I arrived at Isabella's lavish new villa to find the party winding down. The air was thick with a hostility directed squarely at me. Isabella greeted me with a venomously sweet smile, while Dante barely even glanced in my direction.

I stood awkwardly, an outsider in my own life, as Isabella began to hold court, loudly mocking my simple tastes.

"'Seraphina has such... simple tastes, you know,' she said to a group of laughing guests. 'I suppose one can't expect everyone to appreciate the finer things. Some preferences are just ingrained.'"

The guests roared with laughter, their eyes all on me. I felt the blood drain from my face, my skin growing cold and tight.

Suddenly, Dante's face was thunderous. He didn't look at me, but at the guests. "The De Luca family can afford anything," he stated, his voice low and laced with warning.

It wasn't a defense of me. It was a defense of his own pride. The message was clear: You don't insult what belongs to the head of the family.

*