I went back to the bedroom and looked at the closet full of designer clothes.

Every piece meant nothing now.

The red Valentino dress. He said it matched his blood.

The white fur coat. He bought it in Milan, said it would keep me warm in the Chicago winter.

The black Agent Provocateur lingerie. His favorite.

All of it was worthless.

I started packing. Then stopped. These weren’t my clothes. They belonged to the woman I used to be. She was dead.

“Valentina.”

An hour later, Alessandro’s voice came from downstairs. Tired. Entitled.

“Make me that tea you do. The calming one. I have a long night.”

The tea.

For years, whenever Alessandro couldn’t sleep, he’d have me make it. Chamomile. Lavender. Honey.

He said only I could make it right.

“I will,” I said softly.

This would be the last time.

I went to the kitchen.

Francesca was already there.

When she saw me, she smirked.

“Valentina. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to scratch my eyes out yet.”

She pushed out her chest. Showed me the fresh bite mark on her collarbone.

“Is that right?” I said, pulling out the tea canister. “Want a cup? This blend is eight hundred dollars an ounce.”

My calm threw her off.

She studied me like I was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.

“You know why he needs that tea tonight?” Francesca leaned against the counter. “Because I wore him out so bad in that study, he can’t sleep without it.”

“And you want to know the real reason he married you? It was a bet.”

My hands stopped moving.

“What bet?”

Francesca’s smile widened. “A bet that if he married the Conti family’s desperate little heiress, he could get your uncles to hand over the shipping ports.”

“And what were the stakes?”

“I had to fuck him fifty times. That’s all. As long as you said yes to the marriage…”

“Francesca, what the fuck are you saying?!”

Alessandro’s voice boomed from the doorway.

His face was white. His eyes were wild.

Francesca didn’t flinch. She just walked over and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. You know this marriage was just a business deal.”

Alessandro opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at me.

Guilt. Panic. Shame.

I stood there frozen.

Five years ago, my father died. The Conti family was vulnerable. Every family wanted a piece.

But I chose Alessandro.

Because he saved my life when I was sixteen. Because I’d loved him for a decade.

I married him in secret. Against my uncles’ wishes.

The day we signed the papers, I thought I was the luckiest woman alive.

I thought he’d finally seen me. I thought the boy who saved me had become a man who loved me.

Now I knew the truth.

It had all been a game.

“Valentina…” Alessandro started.

I knelt down and picked up the scattered tea leaves.

“He won’t need the tea,” I said, standing up. My voice was terrifyingly calm. “It looks like you’ll keep him busy tonight.”

Francesca smiled in triumph. Alessandro just stood there, frozen.

I turned to leave.

“Valentina, wait—”

I stopped. Turned back.

“Is there something else you want to say? About the bet?”

“It’s not what you think—”

“Then what is it?” I stared into his eyes. “Look at me and tell me the truth. When you married me, was there ever a single moment you did it because you actually wanted me?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Francesca giggled. “See? He admits it.”

I nodded. Walked away.

Later that night, my phone rang.

Alessandro.

“Valentina, what Francesca said earlier… she was lying.”

His voice was desperate.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I understand everything now.”

“No, you don’t! Maybe it started as business. But I fell in love with you.”

My calm was making him panic.

“I swear, next month, I’ll give you the wedding you deserve. Lake Como. A castle. Anything you want.”

I closed my eyes.

The same promise. For four years.

“Alessandro,” I said.

“What?”

I was going to tell him the truth. “Are you free tomorrow? About the alliance and our marriage…”

Before I could finish, Francesca’s voice cut in from his end.

“Alessandro, come back to bed. The jet leaves in two hours.”

His voice dropped, rushed.

“Valentina, what did you say? I couldn’t hear you.”

“There’s something urgent in Miami. Everything else can wait until I get back.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen and laughed.

I was going to give him an easy way out. But he couldn’t even give me that.

In the days that followed, I finished all the power transfers and asset withdrawals.

I moved my things back to the Conti family mansion.

My father’s study was exactly how he’d left it. His cigars still in the humidor. His books still on the shelves.

“Welcome home, Miss,” the butler said. “Your room is ready.”

In the days that followed, Alessandro sent me messages every day.

Photos of a villa on Lake Como.

Photos of a chapel in Tuscany.

Photos of a custom wedding dress worth two million dollars.

All with the same caption:For you.

But at the same time, Francesca was posting on her private Instagram.

She and Alessandro drinking champagne on a yacht in Miami.

Her in a borrowed Hermès gown at a casino.

Her sitting on his lap in his private jet, showing off a new Cartier watch.

Every post was a message to the world: she was the woman Alessandro wanted.

The day before Alessandro’s promised wedding, Carlo came to me in a panic.

“Miss. You need to see this.”

He handed me a phone.

The video showed the rooftop bar of the Fontainebleau. And there was Alessandro, down on one knee in front of Francesca.

He was holding a box. Inside was a yellow diamond the size of a quail egg.

“Francesca. Marry me.”

The Alessandro in the video had tears in his eyes. His voice was soft. Tender.

The crowd around them cheered.

Francesca cried and nodded. Alessandro slipped the ring onto her finger and kissed her.

I recognized that ring. The three‑million‑dollar diamond he had promised me.

“Should I take down the video?” Carlo asked.

“Wipe every copy. Blacklist anyone who shares it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After Carlo left, my phone rang.

Alessandro called, his voice buzzing.

“Valentina! Great news! I’m coming back to Chicago tomorrow. We can finally have our wedding!”

“A chapel in Tuscany. The best planner in Italy. I swear, nothing will go wrong this time.”

The next day, I didn’t go to the chapel. I went back to the compound where we’d lived for four years.

Silence.

Noon came and went. No call from Alessandro.

He didn’t stumble in until 11 p.m. Drunk. Disheveled.

He saw me sitting on the couch. Guilt flashed across his face.

“Valentina…” He swayed into the living room. “I’m sorry. The wedding… it had to be…”

“Had to be what?”

“Francesca… she got into a fight at the hotel. The cops came. I couldn’t just leave her there.” He collapsed into the chair across from me. “But next time. I swear. Next time…”

I felt nothing.

Sure enough. The one hundred and twelfth time.

I just watched him. Then slid the notarized divorce agreement across the table.

“There won’t be a next time. Our alliance and our marriage—both end here.”