I fought my sister, Anna, for two lifetimes to become the Donna.

In my first life, I got what I wanted. I became Lorenzo's woman. People said he loved me as if I were the air in his lungs. When he learned that I loved to dance, he bought an entire ballet company to keep me onstage.

Then he broke my legs. He confined me to a wheelchair and displayed me like an ornament.

One day, he brushed his fingers across my face and finally told me the truth.

"I've seen enough dancing," he said. "And the one I truly love was never you."

I died in that room, swallowed by despair.

In my second life, I stepped aside and gave the Donna's seat to Anna.

"You go," I told her. "The one Lorenzo really loves is you."

I believed that choice would save us. I believed Anna would have the happy ending I never did.

Five years later, they sent her back.

Her legs were intact this time, but she couldn’t move them either.

Lorenzo no longer treated her as a person. He had turned her into a ballerina statue, encased in plaster and posed at what he called her most beautiful moment, frozen in place.

His men delivered the message without a trace of feeling.

"He got tired of watching the younger sister dance," they said. "So he preserved her at her most beautiful."

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself in my third life. Once more, the Don's men delivered a ballet invitation.

Anna and I stared at it. The same question burned in both of us.

If neither of us was the one he loved, then who was Lorenzo really watching?

The invitation card bore no signature. Only a single line of gold-embossed text gleamed across the front: [Three days from now. See you at the theater.]

I stared at the elegant cardstock as a chill crept up my spine.

My sister, Anna Rossi, snatched the card from my hand and turned it over repeatedly. "No name?"

My mother, Antonia Rossi, stepped out of the kitchen, drying her hands. She looked past us at the man standing in the doorway.

"Which one of my daughters does the Don want to take to the ballet?" she asked.

Then, as if the answer were obvious, she added, "Is he inviting Isabella?"

I was Isabella Rossi. My mother asked because Lorenzo Falcone and I had known each other since childhood. People called us childhood sweethearts, as though the label itself proved something. I once believed we loved each other.

After everything I had endured, I understood one truth with absolute clarity. Lorenzo did not love me.

The messenger stood beneath the porch awning, his expression flat. Sunlight cast a long shadow behind him.

"Ma'am, the Don did not specify a particular person." he said.

My mother's brows drew together. The response clearly displeased her. "Sir, an invitation from the Don should include a name."

The man raised his eyes. His gaze shifted from me to Anna and back again, as if weighing two identical objects.

"The Don's meaning was simple," he said. "Anyone from the Rossi family will do. Either one."

The words closed around my throat like a familiar grip.

Memories from my first life surged forward so sharply I tasted iron. The recollection of bones snapping in my legs jolted me fully awake.

I stepped back and spoke plainly, leaving no room for argument. "I'm not accepting the invitation."

In my first life, I had heard those same words—anyone will do—and mistaken them for a private signal from Lorenzo. I dressed without hesitation and went to the theater.

After the ballet performance, Lorenzo proposed. I received what I believed I wanted and became the Donna.

Once we married, he told me he was obsessed with my dancing. He purchased the theater and required me to perform onstage every day to satisfy that obsession.

At first, it felt almost normal. Then the demands tightened. He corrected the curve of my skirt, the angle of each turn, and the exact placement of my hair. He demanded perfection in increments too small to measure and treated rest as a privilege I had not earned.

For five years, I danced for him day and night. In every other aspect of our lives, Lorenzo remained gentle and patient, almost tender.

When it came to dancing, however, I had no right to refuse.

People in Cesielle envied our love story. They spoke of us as proof that God still showed mercy.

They never saw the cost.

In the fifth winter, I collapsed during practice from exhaustion and strain. I struck the floor hard enough to rattle my teeth.

Lorenzo forced the doctor out. Then he broke my legs himself. As pain climbed high enough to nearly steal my consciousness, he leaned close and said, "I'm sick of this dance. You're worthless now. Go on and die quietly."

I sobbed and begged for an answer. I needed to know why. I needed to know what I had done wrong.

He seized my chin and forced my face upward.

"Fine," he said. "I'll tell you. The one I truly loved was—"

I never heard the rest. I died.

The memory of that first life left my hands trembling, but it sharpened my mind.

I met the messenger's gaze and steadied my voice. "Tell the Don I fell while practicing a few days ago and scrambled my brain. I hate ballet now."

Anna caught my wrist, panic flickering in her eyes. She leaned close and whispered, "Are you insane? Refusing the Don like that…"

My mother knew what I had sacrificed to become the Donna. When Lorenzo was injured, I cared for him myself. When he needed to assume control of family business, I abandoned my own ambitions to remain at his side. I loved him with a heat that should have burned out long before it did.

When my mother looked at me, confusion and worry clouded her eyes. "Isabella, you used to care for the Don more than anything. Why would you suddenly—"

I shook my head once, firm and final.

My mother studied me a moment longer, and her expression shifted. She understood. Not my words, but the weight behind them.

She drew a steadying breath, turned to the messenger, and forced a thin smile. "Sir, then I will send my other daughter, Anna Rossi. She enjoys watching ballet."

Anna's face drained of color. Her body jolted, and the protest escaped before she could stop it. "Mom, I'm not going either!"

My mother's brows snapped down, and her voice sharpened. "And what is your reason? The Rossi family cannot afford to offend the Don."

Anna shot me a quick glance, then searched for any excuse to raise as a shield. "I hurt my eyes recently. I can't see clearly. I can't appreciate art."

My mother always favored us. When neither Anna nor I agreed to go, she did not force us. She hesitated, then gathered her courage and pushed the invitation back toward the messenger.

"I'm very sorry, but—"

A gunshot cut her off.

The bullet tore past her ear and buried itself in the wall with a violent crack. Black scorch marks bloomed around the hole. The statue of the Virgin Mary trembled on its nail.

The Don's man lowered the smoking gun and spoke without raising his voice. "You cannot refuse. Mrs. Rossi, the Don hates being refused."

He slapped the invitation onto the table and walked out. At the door, he paused. "In three days, the Don expects to see someone from the Rossi family. If not, you will accept the consequences."

The house fell silent after he left.

Anna rushed to lock the door. Her hand shook so badly she missed the latch the first time.

My mother collapsed into a chair, her legs giving out beneath her.

"It's only a ballet performance," she said weakly. "Why will neither of you go?"

She looked between us, fear sharpening into suspicion. "Do you have other suitors?"

Anna and I exchanged a look. For years, we had fought each other bloody over Lorenzo. We had never spared a glance for any other man. Anyone who admired us had long since learned to stay away.

I bit down on my lip and made a decision. We could not hide it anymore.

I told her everything. About the first life, then the second. About broken legs and plaster and death. Anna filled in what I missed, her voice growing smaller with each detail.

My mother needed a long time to process it. She held our hands and cried without restraint.

"So who does Lorenzo actually love?" she whispered. "Why must it be a daughter of the Rossi family?"

"I want that answer too," Anna said quickly.

She turned to me, fear swimming in her eyes. "When he told you the truth, did you hear the name?"

"I didn't get to," I said.

The words tasted bitter.

"He was halfway through and then I…"

"Don't look at me," Anna cut in. "That lunatic tortured me from beginning to end. He never said a word about it."

Three knocks sounded at the door. All three of us flinched.

I expected the same messenger to return.

Instead, when I opened it, I found Lorenzo standing there with a bouquet of red roses in his hands. He wore a tailored black suit. His smile was calm, almost tender.

He stepped past me as if he belonged in our home.

"I heard neither of you plans to attend," he said lightly. "Don't misunderstand. It's only an ordinary invitation. Appreciating ballet is good for the soul."

He set the roses on the table and let his gaze pass slowly over the three of us.

He added, "So, in three days, don't disappoint me."

He did not wait for an answer.

At the door, he paused and looked back at me. The warmth in his eyes did not reach the rest of his face.

After he left, we made a plan.

Anna volunteered first. "I'll go to the black market. I know people there."

My mother nodded. She would reach out to other families and see if anyone dared shelter us.

I chose something else. I needed to speak to Lorenzo alone. I needed confirmation.

I found him later that day in his private gallery. He stood before a marble statue, studying it in silence. The sculpture had no face, no eyes, no mouth, only smooth, unfinished stone where its features should have been. Its elegant body held a dancer's poise, suspended mid-movement.

"Who is she?" I asked, stepping closer.

Lorenzo turned at the sound of my voice. He gave me the same gentle look that had once ruined me.

"Can't you tell?" he said. "Of course it's you."

Pain flickered through my chest.

Lorenzo collected faceless art, oil paintings, sketches and sculptures of it. Whenever I asked, he always told me they were me. He said he did not carve the features because I was perfect in his mind. No artist could capture that.

I used to feel touched and believed him.

Now I looked closer. There was a cross-shaped scar on the statue's left ankle.

I had no scar.

I crouched and studied the mark. My pulse began to pound in my ears.

I straightened and met his eyes. "This is not me, Lorenzo. I don't have that scar. So who is she?"

For the first time, his expression froze. His fingers brushed lightly over the marble. He stayed silent long enough for the air between us to thin.

When he finally looked at me, his gaze had sharpened. "Do you really want to know who she is?"

"I need to know." I gave each word deliberate weight.

Lorenzo laughed.

"Isabella, that's you," he said gently. "The cross mark is a natural flaw in the marble. It looks exactly like the injury you had as a child. You may not remember, but I remember it clearly."

His tone was persuasive, almost sincere, but I knew my own body. I had never injured my ankle like that.

He stepped closer and reached for my cheek. I recoiled before I could stop myself.

There was a time when Lorenzo treated me well. We had known each other since childhood. When I hurt myself during training, he oversaw my care and summoned the best doctors. When rumors spread about me, he never asked who started them. He reached for his gun first.

I still could not identify the exact moment he changed.

A bitter ache rose in my throat and pulled me back to the present.

I drew a slow breath.

"If you truly care about me, why not say it plainly?" I asked quietly. "The invitation had no name."

Lorenzo hesitated for a fraction of a second.

"I know how Anna feels," he said softly. "I left your name off because I did not want to wound her pride. She is your sister, after all. I don't want the two of you turning against each other because of me."

His lips curved. "Is that why you refused? Were you jealous?"

We both knew the truth. Anna did not love him the way I once had. She loved the rivalry. As children, she fought me for jewelry, clothes, and our mother's affection. When that no longer satisfied her, she began competing with me for men.

My silence seemed to please him. He turned toward me fully, his gaze warm enough to draw someone in.

He said, "Don't overthink it. The one I have always loved is you. In three days, I'll send a car for you. Do not refuse again. I have waited far too long.

"After we marry, I'll bring you red velvet cake every day. Your favorite. What do you think?"

My heart stumbled.

Red velvet cake?

I forced a smile.

"All right," I said lightly. "I'll come. But there's no need to send a car. If Anna finds out, she'll cause trouble. I'll wear a mask. If someone sees me and tells her, it will create unnecessary drama."

Lorenzo nodded without hesitation.

"As you wish," he said. "As long as you come."

…

When I returned home, Anna and our mother were waiting by the door.

After I told them what had happened, Anna struck me across the face.

"Have you lost your mind?" she demanded. "You're going back to that psychopath? Was having your legs broken not enough for you?"

I pressed a hand to my cheek. For the first time, I did not argue.

I looked at both of them and spoke calmly. "The Don said someone from the Rossi family must attend the ballet."

I let the words settle before I continued.

"But it will not be either of us."