I picked up the letter opener from the desk and sliced my thumb.

No hesitation. No trembling. I pressed my thumbprint onto the last page of the divorce agreement.

The red print was a final, bloody seal.

"Finally!" Leo suddenly squirmed out of Dante's arms, his face lit up. "The traitor is finally gone from the family! Now I can hold my head up high!"

The joy on his face was genuine, a stark contrast to the disgust he'd shown me moments before.

Dante walked over, taking the blood-stained papers. "Do you have any idea how much you've shamed him, Isabella?" he said, as if justifying his son's reaction.

"You're always making a scene, you have no class, no grace. You never acted like a Moretti wife should. You never tried to understand the pressure I'm under."

I wrapped a napkin around my stinging finger and said nothing.

"Leo gets made fun of at school. He can't even look the other heirs in the eye."

"You're the one who cheated. You're the one who caused the scandal, not me," I said, looking right at him, my voice flat. "You can twist it however you want, blame it all on me, but you can't change what you did."

My mind drifted back three months, to another night I was left completely alone.

It was a major family fundraiser. All of the Morettis' biggest partners were there.

I was in a beautiful gown, playing the part of the perfect hostess. Everything was going smoothly until I saw them in the garden.

Dante and Angelina, standing close. She was whispering in his ear, her hand resting on his chest. He didn't push her away.

It wasn't the first time.

After the vase incident, I was on edge, paranoid. Every time I saw them alone, every time Angelina looked at my husband with those possessive eyes, the rage would start to boil.

"Enough!" my voice cut through the quiet night. "You can't even wait? You have to do this in front of everyone?"

The guests in the ballroom turned to look.

"Isabella, what are you talking about?" Dante came over, trying to take my hand. "Angelina and I were just discussing the charity fund."

"Discussing?" I snatched my hand back. "You have to be that close to discuss things? Her hand has to be on your chest?"

A dead silence fell over the crowd.

"Mrs. Moretti," Angelina suddenly said, her voice soft and reasonable. "I understand your concern. As a woman, it can be unsettling to see your husband speaking with another woman. But tonight is an important night for the Moretti family. Perhaps we could resolve this misunderstanding in private?"

Her calm, reasonable tone painted me as the hysterical one.

"Misunderstanding?" My voice grew sharper. "I saw it with my own eyes and you call it a misunderstanding?"

"Darling," Dante said, stepping in front of me, a warning in his eyes. "You've had too much to drink. Maybe you should go upstairs and rest."

"I'm not drunk!" I shoved him. "I saw you! Do you think I'm blind?"

And then, Angelina gave her master performance.

She walked up to me and gave a small, elegant bow.

"Ma'am, I am so sorry my presence has caused this problem. Perhaps I should leave so this wonderful evening can continue." She paused, her voice laced with hurt. "I only wanted to contribute to the family's charity work. If that makes Mrs. Moretti uncomfortable, I will withdraw from all my projects."

She played her part, and I lost. Her cool composure made my rage look like madness.

Dante looked from me to her, and I saw the scales tip.

"Isabella, you're disappointing me."

In that moment, I knew I'd lost.

Everyone started looking at me differently—the way you look at a crazy woman who's about to fly off the handle.

"Go to your room," Dante's voice was quiet, but it was an order. "Now."

The humiliation still suffocates me.

But the worst part was seeing Leo, watching from the shadows.

That's what led to the essay. His damn essay calling me a psycho.

My heart died for good that night.

But it was over now. All of it.

I put down the pen and walked out of the Moretti estate, without a single look back at Dante or Leo.

Behind me, I heard Dante's mocking voice, "See you in court. Hope you're just as decisive then."

A week later, I saw a photo in a gossip magazine.

It was Dante and Angelina in matching evening wear. Leo was holding both their hands, a huge smile on his face. The three of them at some black-tie charity gala, looking like the perfect family.

The headline read: "A New Beginning for the Moretti Family."

My fingers traced over the photo. Leo looked so happy. Happier than he ever looked with me.

"They look good together," I said softly.

My mother snatched the magazine out of my hands and threw it into the fireplace. "Don't look at that garbage."

But I'd already seen it. The damage was done.

I closed my eyes, and the memories came flooding back.

The night Leo was born, six years ago. A C-section. I thought Dante was waiting right outside. A nurse told me the surgery was a success, that I had a healthy boy. I was weak, but I managed to ask, "Where's my husband?"

The nurse looked away. "Mr. Moretti had an urgent matter to attend to. He said he'd be back as soon as he could."

I found out later that the "urgent matter" was Angelina's birthday dinner. While I was fighting for my life on an operating table, he was lighting candles for another woman in a three-star Michelin restaurant.

And the night Leo had his first high fever. 103.6 degrees. I drove him to the hospital alone. I called Dante a dozen times. No answer.

He finally showed up the next morning, suit wrinkled, a lipstick smudge on his collar.

"Sorry, my phone died last night," he'd said.

But I could smell Angelina's perfume in his car.

After every betrayal, there was a priceless piece of jewelry to make up for it. A Cartier diamond necklace, a Bulgari emerald ring, a limited-edition Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet.

"All women like shiny things, don't they?" he once said. "Give you enough money and you'll shut up."

A far cry from the man who, six years earlier, had sworn his undying love.

Back then, he was just a small-time capo, driving a secondhand car and living in a shitty apartment. But when he looked at me, there was fire in his eyes. There was honesty. There was a love I thought would last forever.

"Isabella, I swear, you're the only one I'll ever love," he'd said on the rooftop where we had our first date. "Power, status... that can all change. But my love for you never will."

What a joke. The power changed him. And it changed his love.

I finished packing my bags.

Six years of marriage, and all I was taking were some clothes and a few books.

I gathered all our photos and burned them in the fireplace.

I watched them curl, blacken, and turn to ash.

Just like every trace of me in this house. Gone for good.

The court date came quickly.

I deliberately wore the red vintage dress he’d given me when he proposed. Silk, cut perfectly, the color of blood and fire.

"Why are you wearing that?" Dante asked, stunned, when he saw me outside the courtroom.

"Because today is my new birthday," I answered calmly. "I wanted to celebrate."

His smile faltered. For a second, something else was in his eyes—confusion? Regret? It was gone before I could name it.

"Regarding custody of the child, Ms. Isabella Moretti has voluntarily relinquished all rights to Mr. Dante Moretti..."

"Regarding the division of assets, Mr. Dante Moretti will pay Ms. Isabella Moretti a one-time sum of fifty million dollars within one month..."

"As both parties have agreed to the terms of the divorce, this court hereby declares the marriage between Isabella Moretti and Dante Moretti officially dissolved, effective immediately..."

The moment the gavel fell, I felt a lightness I hadn't felt in years.

The six-year sentence was finally over.

As I walked out of the courthouse, Dante called my name.

"Isabella, where are you gonna go? You haven't forgotten, have you? Your father has a new family, he washed his hands of you years ago. You gonna go back and live on his charity? Oh, right, your mother has a little money—look, for Leo's sake, if you regret this..." His voice was dripping with that arrogant certainty I hated so much.

He still saw me as that pathetic girl, abandoned by her father, who couldn't survive without him.

He had no idea my mother was Victoria Wright, the head of the most powerful family in Italy.

And I was her only heir.

"I won't regret it," I said, not even turning around. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Victoria's car was already at the curb. I got in without breaking stride.

The car pulled away from the courthouse. In the rearview mirror, I saw Dante still standing there, his hand outstretched as if to grab something, but catching nothing but cold, empty air.

My mother saw the look on my face. "You know," she said, her voice dry, "your father watched me leave the exact same way, twenty-five years ago."

"He thought I couldn't live without him, too. Thought I'd come crying and begging him to take me back."

I turned to look at this elegant woman—my mother. Even at fifty, she was stunning, with a regal air that was born, not made.

"But you did more than just live."

She smiled. "I've been running the Wright family for years. Oil, weapons, diamonds, smuggling... You name a dirty business, I've got a piece of it. The Wright family now operates in thirteen countries. Our annual revenue is three times the Morettis'."

A sharp glint appeared in her eye. "In this man's world, if a woman wants to survive, she has to be tougher, smarter, and more ruthless than they are."

I was filled with admiration, but I couldn't help a bitter smile. "I wish I was strong like you, instead of just repeating your mistakes in marriage."

The car was heading toward a private airfield.

"I saw Dante for what he was the moment you married him," my mother said with a small laugh. "He looked at you with possession, with the desire to conquer, but never with respect. A man like that, once he gets power, he treats women like toys he can throw away."

"Then why didn't you stop me?"

"Because you wouldn't have listened," she said, shaking her head. "You only had eyes for him, just like I only had eyes for your father. There's some pain a woman has to feel for herself before she'll ever learn."

When we got to the airport, my mother's private jet was waiting. Black and gold, with the Wright family crest on the tail—a phoenix rising from the flames.

"Funny thing," she said. "Three years ago, your father's business was on the verge of collapse. He came to me, with his tail between his legs, begging for a handout."

"Did you help him?"

"I made him get on his knees and beg in front of all his creditors. Then, in front of all his friends, I gave him a check and told him it was charity, not a bailout."

"Isabella," my mother said, looking me dead in the eye. "I'm telling you this because I want you to know that if you want it, there will come a day when Dante will be on his knees, begging you."

"Men think women are nothing without them. And who gives them that confidence? Who makes them so damn sure of themselves? ... Loyal fools like us."

Her words landed, and something inside me shifted.

The plane took off, and the lights of New York City faded beneath us.

First, we went to London, where my mother owned an 18th-century manor. Then to Paris, to her apartment overlooking the Seine. Then Switzerland, where she had shares in a private bank.

Everywhere we went, I saw the true extent of her power. Politicians and tycoons treated her with a respect that bordered on fear. Even old European aristocrats treated her like royalty.

"Power isn't given to you, Isabella," she told me in a Monte Carlo casino as she played a hand of baccarat. "You take it. With intelligence, with ruthlessness, and with absolute cold."

Finally, we arrived at the Wright family estate in Tuscany, Italy.

It was a 16th-century castle, surrounded by rolling vineyards. Seventy rooms, a private chapel, and a small army of highly trained security.

"This will be your new home," my mother said, standing on the castle's terrace, looking out at the Tuscan hills bathed in sunset. "You can heal here. You can think here. And you can start over."

"Start over with what?"

"Building your own kingdom," Victoria said, turning to me, a fire of ambition in her eyes. "One that doesn't depend on any man, that isn't controlled by anyone. A kingdom that only you can destroy."

I looked at this powerful woman—my mother—and suddenly, I understood.

Maybe we were both fools once.

But the age of fools was over.

It was our turn to be queens.