The cloying nickname on the screen made my eyes sting. Still, I answered.

His voice was as affectionate as ever. "Alessia, are you busy?"

"I just finished up."

"How was your day? Worn out?"

"I'm fine."

"I'll be back tomorrow. I've got a huge surprise for you. You're going to love it."

He continued to speak in that gentle tone, but the sound of his voice made my stomach churn.

"Oh?" I managed a light laugh. "I'm dying to see it."

The next morning, just after I had finished handling some family business, I received an encrypted email from Cassia.

"Everything you asked for is in here. This Ivy woman has some serious ambition."

I opened the attachment. It was a screenshot of Ivy's feed on a private social media app, open only to billionaires and high-ranking mobsters.

Her latest post was a close-up of the emerald ring, worn on her slender finger, right next to the thorn bird tattoo. The photo was artfully taken, the lighting suggestive, and the caption read: "Some crowns are meant to be seized."

I clicked on the next post. It was a selfie of her at the private dock of our lakeside villa. Ivy was in a bikini, leaning against my favorite Riva yacht. The caption: "He said that from now on, this is my harbor."

My harbor. The one he’d sworn was mine and mine alone.

I stared at the words and let out a harsh laugh of disbelief.

My gut twisted, but I kept scrolling.

There was a photo with the master bedroom of my and Preston's home clearly visible in the background. Ivy was wrapped in a silk towel, holding my purebred Persian cat, and smiling sweetly. "Waking up in the castle. So restorative."

In another, she was sitting in my vintage Aston Martin, holding my favorite cigar. "I love the scent of his car. He says it's the only thing that truly relaxes him."

Every photo, every caption, was a blatant claim on my life.

I closed the photos and opened another folder. It contained the file Cassia had dug up on Ivy. She came from nothing, a dancer at a third-rate nightclub with a sordid history. Climbing into the inner circle of the Gallo family should have been impossible for someone like her.

The only standout detail was her supposed "natural intuition" for classical art.

That detail stuck with me.

I continued scrolling, and when I saw the last photo, my entire body went rigid.

In the picture, Ivy stood before a massive oil painting, holding restoration tools and smiling with deep satisfaction. That painting was my missing masterpiece—Seraphina's Lament.

I had spent three whole years on it. It was the most important bargaining chip I had prepared for the family to use in a deal with a rival faction. It was also the most crucial work of my career.

I shot up from my seat and stormed into the study, where the hidden entrance to the family vault was located.

I activated the mechanism, and the password interface popped up.

I tried my birthday. Incorrect.

I tried our wedding anniversary. Incorrect.

I tried every date that had ever meant something to us. All incorrect.

I stared at the password field, my mind buzzing. Then, a sick feeling, a thought, rose in my throat.

Cassia's file had Ivy's birthday in it.

My hand trembled slightly as I typed in the date.

"Welcome, Principessa."

The vault door swung open.

The password to our family vault. He had changed it to his mistress's birthday.

A wave of immense humiliation washed over me, nearly taking my breath away.

I bit my lip and stepped inside. The shelves that had once held all my restoration records and research materials were completely empty.

All that was left was a forged restoration report, attributing all the credit for restoring Seraphina's Lament to one person.

The signature line bore the name "Ivy Reed."

Preston wasn't just deceiving me and betraying our marriage. He was stealing my glory, my value, and our family's future to pave the way for his mistress.

I had to lean against the cold vault door to keep myself from collapsing.

So this was betrayal. It didn't just break your trust. It stripped you of everything you had built with your own hands.

At the Gallo family estate, a private art appraisal was underway, an event that would decide the future of the family.

I took a seat in an inconspicuous corner and watched as Preston walked in with Ivy, seating her in a prime position beside the Don, Matteo Gallo.

He was dressed in a top-of-the-line Brioni suit, his hair impeccably styled. He turned slightly to speak to the other family heads beside him, his tone calm and confident.

Ivy sat next to him in a white haute couture gown, her makeup flawless, looking like a true socialite. The tawdry, cheap air she once had was gone, replaced by the polished sheen that comes from being nurtured by power.

She gazed at Preston with an expression of pure adoration.

They exchanged an easy smile, looking for all the world like a perfectly matched power couple.

Soon, the appraisal began.