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.

*

Seraphina POV:

Amused by the drama she had created, Isabella clapped. "Enough serious talk! Let's go to the game room!"

As she passed me, she leaned in and whispered, her breath hot against my ear. "The connection I have with him is something you'll never understand. You're just a pretty ornament, Sera."

My hands clenched into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. I followed the group into a plush, dimly lit game room and found a quiet corner, wanting nothing more than to disappear.

Then, Dante rose from his seat across the room and settled beside me. He didn't say a word; his presence was a silent, possessive claim, a heavy weight that made my skin crawl.

Isabella saw it. A flash of jealous hatred flickered in her eyes before she quickly masked it, gliding over to sit on Dante's other side, effectively sandwiching me between them. I didn't have to look to know his attention had shifted entirely to her; the subtle turn of his body, the energy in the space between them-it all screamed her name.

I reached for a glass of scotch on the table. Before my fingers could touch it, Dante's hand covered mine.

"You're not drinking that," he said, his voice a low command. "You know you have a weak stomach."

It was a small, almost tender gesture, a flicker of the husband he pretended to be. But the moment was shattered when Isabella drew out a small, ornate bottle.

"Look what I found, Dante," she cooed, holding up a rare fruit juice he used to love as a teenager. "The production line was defunct, but I had them restart it. Just for you."

Dante's eyes, which had been cold and distant, suddenly lit up with a warmth I had never seen. Love and nostalgia warred in his gaze, softening the hard lines of his face in a way I never could.

"Thank you, Bella," he said, his voice quiet.

Guests around us whispered, "She's so devoted," and, "She really knows him." Each word painted me as the interloper, the unwanted third wheel. Dante ignored them, his attention locked on Isabella.

"Let's play a game!" Isabella announced, her eyes glittering with a predatory light. "A game of chance."

The rules were simple. The person who drew the highest card from a deck would choose someone to join them for a private conversation.

The crowd roared, their eyes darting between Dante and Isabella. They all knew this game was for them.

The deck was passed around. Dante drew a card. The King of Spades. The highest card. The room erupted in cheers and whistles.

I knew who he would choose. I prepared to stand, to leave, to escape this final humiliation.

But before I could move, Dante's hand shot out and grabbed mine, his grip painfully tight. "Don't move," he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for me, a command that masqueraded as reassurance.

Then he stood, turned to Isabella, and offered her his arm. The crowd went wild as he led her toward the heavy oak doors of the adjoining library, a clear and public statement.

*