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.

*

Seraphina POV:

The library door clicked shut.

The sound was quiet, but in the suddenly hushed room, it felt like a final verdict. Then the room erupted. Cheers, whistles, the clinking of glasses. They were toasting the reunion of the Don and his long-lost love.

I sat there, a statue in a navy silk dress, and felt a chilling finality lodge itself deep in my marrow. It was over. Not just the party, not just the night. Everything.

I had been the only one who ever took our vows seriously. He'd said them to save face. I'd said them because a secret, stupid part of me had hoped.

"You'd think she'd have some dignity," a woman whispered from a nearby table.

"I almost feel sorry for her," her friend agreed, her tone suggesting the opposite. "Almost. She needs to let him move on."

The words were meant for me to hear. Every head was turned in my direction, their eyes a sickening cocktail of pity and scorn. I couldn't breathe. The air was too thick with their judgment.

Unable to bear it another second, I stood up. My legs felt like water, but I willed them to lock. I was leaving.

Just as I turned, the library door opened.

A few minutes. It felt like a lifetime.

Dante and Isabella emerged, blinking in the sudden light. My eyes immediately found the evidence. Isabella's expression was one of pure triumph, a possessive light shining in her eyes that marked him as hers.

My heart, which I thought had been ground to dust, somehow found a way to fracture anew.

I managed to find my voice, though it sounded thin and distant, like it was coming from someone else. "I'm not feeling well. I'm going home."

No one heard me. Or if they did, they didn't care. Dante's eyes were only for Isabella, a soft, possessive look on his face that I had craved for seven years and never once received.

I walked out of the villa, a ghost leaving her own haunting. I called a car and sank into the back seat, the leather cold against my skin.

My phone buzzed. A video file from Isabella.

My fingers trembled as I pressed play. The screen was dark, lit only by the faint light from under the library door. I could hear their breathing.

"You left me at the altar nine times, Bella," Dante's voice was low, a rumble of old anger. "You ran off with another man."

Isabella's voice was a seductive purr. "And you married her. Are you happy, Dante? Is she a good wife?" A pause. "Will you divorce her for me?"

The silence that followed was the most painful sound I had ever heard. It stretched on, each second a new kind of torture. I waited for him to say my name, to defend our marriage, to say no.

His voice, when it finally came, was thick with an emotion I couldn't place. Regret? Longing?

"You know I can never say no to you."

The video ended.

My seven-year marriage, my entire adult life, turned to ash.

I ignored the follow-up texts from Isabella, little digital daggers of triumph I didn't need to see. I arrived back at the cold, empty De Luca mansion and walked straight to our master bathroom.

I twisted my wedding ring. The platinum was heavy, the diamond cold. A seven-year contract. A gilded cage.

I dropped it into the toilet bowl. It hit the porcelain with a small, insignificant clink.

I pressed the handle and watched it swirl, the diamond catching the light one last time before it was sucked away into the darkness.

A sense of liberation, sharp and clean, washed over me. I was free.

I finished packing the last of my things. My design portfolio, the worn photograph of my mother, the few clothes that weren't bought by him.

The front door of the mansion burst open, slamming against the wall.

Dante stood in the entryway, his face a mask of cold fury. Behind him, clinging to his arm and sobbing into his chest, was Isabella.

He stalked toward me, his eyes boring into me with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. "You took her necklace," he stated, not asked. His voice was a blade of deadly calm. "Give it back now, and we can forget this happened. Or we handle this with the full weight of the De Luca name."

It was a setup. Of course it was. "I didn't take anything, Dante."

"Don't lie to me."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "In seven years, have I ever once asked you for a single thing? Have I ever coveted anything in this entire empire you're so proud of?"

He faltered. For half a second, I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

Isabella seized the moment. "It was a gift from you, Dante!" she wailed, clutching at him. "It's priceless to me!" She reached a hand toward me, as if to plead.

My patience snapped. I flinched away from her touch. "Don't you dare touch me."

Isabella stumbled back dramatically, collapsing against Dante's chest. "See?" she cried. "She's a thief! She has always been jealous of what I have!"

My blood ran cold. The air left my lungs. "What did you say?"

Isabella looked up at Dante, her eyes shining with fake tears and real venom. "She has always been jealous of me. People like her are never satisfied."

My control, the iron-clad restraint I had practiced for seven miserable years, shattered into a million pieces.

Before my mind could protest, my hand flew.

The sound of my palm connecting with her cheek-a sharp, satisfying crack that split the suffocating silence-echoed through the grand foyer.

*