After ten years with Lance Salvatore, I had long grown accustomed to being the silent shadow beside his throne.

But at a dress viewing for the annual family gala, his fingers traced my collarbone in front of his men, his touch a cold mockery as he declared me unworthy of becoming the matriarch of the Salvatore family. And in that moment, the volcano inside me finally erupted.

For ten years, I had belonged to the most feared man in Chicago—a handsome beast who would smother my talents, extinguish my passions, and have the audacity to call it "love."

The unique tattoos I designed for him were dismissed as “childish scribbles,” and my every breath felt tethered to his whims. And now, draped in priceless silk, he told me I wasn't even a worthy ornament. Under his scornful gaze, the tightrope of my obedience finally snapped.

My voice, trembling but sharp, finally bared its teeth. "Lance, if I'm so unworthy, why do you keep me chained to your side?"

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1

At the dress viewing, when I stepped out of the fitting room, even Lance's men let out hushed murmurs of admiration.

The tailor nodded, a look of deep satisfaction on his face. "Miss Rossi, you have such a tall, slender figure. This blood-red silk gown looks as if it were sculpted for you."

"You have to show your fiancé. The Don is going to be absolutely delighted."

I managed a faint smile. "I wouldn't be so sure. His standards are notoriously high."

I had been with Lance Salvatore for over a decade, and he always held me to impossibly harsh standards, never once offering a single word of praise.

But today, gazing in the mirror at my snow-white skin, my perfect curves, and how breathtaking I looked in this dress…

Maybe, just this once, Lance would approve. I dared to hope. Will he praise me? Tell me I’m beautiful? Will his eyes light up, the way other men’s do when they look at the women they love?

With that fragile fantasy blooming in my chest, I nervously touched his sleeve. The next second, it shattered.

Lance slowly turned, his gaze raking over me from head to toe. His first words were, "You still lack presence, Leann."

The smile on my face froze, and even the tailor beside me looked mortified.

"Your eyes are timid, your posture is stiff. There isn't a shred of authority in you. You can't carry a dress like this."

"Leann," he sighed coldly, "in this dress, you look nothing like the future matriarch of this family."

His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room, clear enough for everyone to hear.

All eyes fell upon me—some pitying, some watching the spectacle, some gloating.

In that moment, I wasn't a person. I was merchandise on display for Lance’s inspection.

Tears welled in my eyes, and my chest felt so tight I could barely catch my breath.

To wear this dress, I had endured his grueling etiquette training. For four straight months, I spent nearly every day learning how to stand, how to smile, how to walk with grace. I’d lost eighteen pounds, all just to be worthy of standing beside him at the family gala.

Why did he still have to belittle me like this?

Perhaps the pressure of the past few months had left me emotionally raw, or perhaps the agony of my shattered hope was too acute.

Whatever the reason, in that instant, after a decade of silent endurance, I broke.

I ripped the diamond necklace from my throat and screamed at him for the first time, "Lance Salvatore, if I'm not good enough for your world, then let me go!"

"Fine! I don't look like a future Donna, so whoever wants the title can have it!"

Under Lance's stunned gaze, I took a ragged breath and finally voiced the words that had been circling in my mind for years.

"Lance, we're over."

My best friend, Marissa O'Malley, came to pick me up before my tears had even dried. The moment I changed my relationship status online, my phone blew up.

The most common question was: "Leann, was there some kind of misunderstanding with Don Lance?"

"He's so perfect. You'll regret leaving him for the rest of your life."

Even my own mother sided with him. "I spoke with Lance. It was such a small thing, Leann. Don't make a fuss."

Lance himself sent only four words: "Stop throwing a tantrum."

I stared at my phone, a profound sense of helplessness washing over me. No one understood.

After all, in everyone's eyes, Lance Salvatore was the perfect man.

He was handsome, brilliant, and wielded immense power. In our ten years together, he had never once strayed. But he had one devastating flaw: he took pleasure in crushing my spirit.

We grew up together. He was a natural-born leader, excelling at everything, and outshining me in every way.

However, fate is fair. Along with his gifts, it cursed him with a brutal family.

His mother died young. His father was a cold, ruthless man who rarely showed him affection, sparing him a glance only when Lance proved his worth to the family business.

As a result, Lance was forced to mature far too early.

While other kids in the neighborhood were still playing in the mud, Lance was already learning the family’s brutal trade.

His tragic upbringing had forged him into a cold, cruel man. But he saved his sharpest, cruelest barbs for me.

When my tattoo design won a silver medal instead of gold, he’d tap my forehead and dismiss my "limited talent." He would point at my work and berate me, "How can you not grasp such a simple composition?"

When I won a bronze medal in a competition where he won gold, he would glance at me with unconcealed disappointment and coldly label me a "failure."

Throughout my entire adolescence, my mom's favorite refrain was, "Look at Lance. He's so outstanding, the most promising heir in the family. His achievements are second to none."

I grew up in Lance's shadow, hating how he always made me feel worthless, hating how my mom constantly held him up as the gold standard.

But back then, everyone insisted Lance and I were "the perfect couple." They claimed he treated me this way only because he cared.

Even when Lance confessed his feelings, he framed it as a virtue. "Leann, if I didn't care about you, would I be so strict with you?"

That was the first time he had ever spoken to me so gently. His expression was soft, his eyes filled with a warm, smiling light.

The cheers from those around us drowned out the unease in my heart. And just like that, I naively fell into a life with him.

That naivety lasted for ten years.

Marissa, my college best friend, was the only one who had my back when I decided to break up with him.

Once in college, Lance summoned me to his private club to keep him company.

Waking up at six on a weekend was torture. I rushed over but was still three minutes late.

Lance stood at the door with his arms crossed, his face a thundercloud. "Leann, do you have any concept of time?"

"Is this how you plan to show up for client meetings? What happens when a multi-million dollar deal falls through because of your tardiness?"

I instinctively started to apologize, but Marissa, returning from her morning run, pulled me behind her.

"It’s bad enough you dragged her out of bed this early on a weekend just to keep you company. Leann is doing you a favor by even being here."

"And she was three minutes late. Do you really need to make a federal case out of it?"

After that day, the relationship between Lance and Marissa turned icy.

Marissa was always my biggest cheerleader. She celebrated my high GPA, my design scholarship, even just my discipline for making it to an eight o'clock class.

She would say, "Don't listen to Lance. Our Leann is the absolute best!"

It was the kind of validation I had craved my entire life. I adored being with her.

Lance scoffed at it. "She only praises you to make you complacent and blind to your own flaws."

"One must be humble to see their own shortcomings. I point out your problems directly. That is what’s truly good for you!"

Every time Marissa's name came up, Lance’s brow would furrow, the corners of his mouth turning down in displeasure.

I knew that look. It was the prelude to a lecture.

I wanted to argue, to defend Marissa, but an inexplicable fear would always grip me, leaving me paralyzed.

I was terrified. Terrified of Lance's anger, terrified of his accusations.

When Marissa found out, she just gently stroked my hair. "Leann, when a bird has been caged for too long, it forgets how to fly."

"Take it slow."

So today, when she heard I had finally decided to break up with Lance, she was ecstatic.

She hugged me tightly and whispered, "Congratulations, Leann. You're finally free."

Marissa took me to her apartment, letting me stay in the guest room.

She led me inside, her eyes sparkling. "Leann, do you like it? I decorated it just for you!"

I stared at the dark, gothic-style wallpaper, the desk adorned with skeletal roses, and the doll on the bed tied with a black bow. I stared, dazed.

After moving in with Lance, how long had it been since I had seen anything that was truly me?

Lance was a minimalist. His entire estate was a sterile landscape of black, white, and gray.

As for my love for dark and gothic aesthetics, he would just sneer, "Leann, your taste is so morbid."

The thought brought a fresh wave of tears. I hugged Marissa and cried my heart out.

If Lance was the nightmare I couldn't escape, Marissa was the angel fate had sent to save me.

I went to the penthouse we were meant to share, the one that was supposed to be our home, to pack my things.

To my surprise, Lance was already there.

He sat on the sofa, not even bothering to look up. "Done with your tantrum? Decided to come back?"

I fought to keep my voice from trembling. "I'm not throwing a tantrum, Lance. I'm really leaving."

"I just came back to get my things."

Unexpectedly, Lance said nothing more. He just sat there, one leg casually crossed over the other, watching me with an unnerving, almost mocking smirk. Swallowing the knot of dread in my throat, I started packing.

There wasn't much that was truly mine—just a handful of items. Lance had bought most of my belongings after I moved in.

When we first started living together, he had frowned at my colorful paintings and tattoo designs.

"Leann, why is your stuff so gloomy? It's hideous."

The next day, he threw it all away.

I confronted him, but he just said dismissively, "Your things were cheap and tasteless. I did you a favor and replaced them."

That was the first time I wanted to break up with him. I didn't understand why personal preference had to be judged as high or low class.

But my mom talked me out of it. "Lance cares so much about you. Just humor him a little. You've been together for so many years; you can't break up over something so trivial."

That time, I compromised. It was only much later that I realized it wasn't trivial at all.

Anything that makes you feel small is never a small thing.