My marriage to Dante Volkov was a cold, ten-year family alliance.

I was the Principessa of the Moretti family; he was the Underboss of the Volkov family.

I’ve just been diagnosed with a rare blood disease, and I have less than three months to live.

I wanted the matching black rose tattoo we’d always promised each other—a final keepsake for myself.

But for over three months, every time I booked the city’s top tattoo artist, Dante always found an excuse to cancel.

His trusted subordinate, Isabella Rossi, would conveniently find herself in some kind of trouble.

Harassment from a rival family, a leak of intelligence...

Dante treated her every mishap as a five-alarm fire, and for three months, he never made time for me.

As the torment of my illness intensified, I pleaded with Dante one last time.

But he refused me again, choosing instead to attend Isabella's victory party.

I couldn't stand it anymore. I dragged my failing body to the party.

I needed an answer, a reason—anything.

The moment I arrived, I heard Isabella, arm in arm with Dante, raising a glass.

"This is Dante," she cooed to the rapt audience, "my fiancé."

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1

Dante’s expression was infuriatingly calm—a silent approval.

The instant their glasses were about to clink, I surged forward and hurled a glass of red wine at Isabella’s expensive white gown.

The liquid splashed, staining the silk over her chest a deep crimson.

Then I smashed the glass on the floor, the shards scraping my skin.

Dante’s first reaction was to shield Isabella, but when he saw my face, his eyes instantly darkened.

"Elara, what the hell are you doing here?"

"This is not the place for you. Don't you dare disgrace the Moretti name."

The word "disgrace" was a shard of ice in my heart.

This was not the first time he had accused me of being unreasonable for Isabella's sake.

Whenever I showed the slightest resentment, Dante would shut me down with lectures about "the bigger picture" and "family honor."

We had fought this battle countless times, and Isabella always managed to appear at the perfect moment, playing the innocent victim.

She claimed the rift between us was because I didn't understand his world.

In ten years of marriage, he had never once maintained a proper distance from her.

Since my diagnosis, I had become brittle, physically and emotionally.

So many nights, I’d wake up in excruciating pain, craving his warmth, only to find the sheets beside me cold and empty.

I had asked him to stop seeing Isabella. He told me not to worry, that she was just a useful pawn.

Now, that pawn was on the verge of replacing me. I finally snapped.

"You're a married man, Dante! Our marriage is a treaty between our families. Are you trying to start a war?"

The moment I spoke, we became the center of the storm.

Isabella looked at Dante, her expression a mask of helplessness, her lower lip already bitten raw.

Dante reached out, his thumb gently swiping at her lip. "Don't bite," he murmured. "You're bleeding."

He put his arm around Isabella, ready to lead her away to change, leaving me standing there, utterly alone.

It was always like this. Isabella played the victim, using feigned fragility to monopolize all of Dante's attention.

I called out to him, my voice sharp.

"If you walk away with her today, we get a divorce."

His steps faltered for a heartbeat.

But he still left with her.

The remaining guests pointed and snickered, mocking the sidelined Principessa.

"How pathetic. She still thinks being Mrs. Volkov gives her any power."

"Look at her. What could Dante possibly see in that? She looks old enough to be his Madre."

The ugly words rained down on me.

In my ten years with him, the one thing I dreaded most was any mention of my age.

I fled in disgrace, not noticing until I was gone that the cuff of my dress was stained red—not with wine, but with blood where the glass had sliced my skin.

Right. The doctor had said that in the late stages, my blood wouldn't clot properly.

By the time I got home, the blood had soaked through my sleeve.

I called Dante.

It rang and rang, but the person who answered was Isabella.

"Let me talk to Dante. We need to discuss the divorce."

I heard some rustling, then Dante's furious roar through the phone.

"Is threatening divorce the only move you have left, Elara?"

The line went dead. I stood frozen.

A warm, sticky trickle started from my nose. The world began to spin, the dizziness overwhelming.

I had to brace myself against the wall just to make it to the bathroom.

The medicine was losing its battle against the mutiny in my cells. I didn't have much time.

And even now, Dante and I had not a single memento to share.

I stumbled out of the bathroom. My foot slipped on the slick floor, and my body pitched backward.

I closed my eyes, bracing for impact, but landed in a strong, warm embrace.

"Elara!"

His voice was trembling.

"I told you to be careful! What if I hadn't been here..." A tremor of fear shot through him, and he buried his face in the crook of my neck.

My instinctive flinch made his entire body stiffen.

Then he spoke softly.

"Elara, I'm sorry. I was an ass today."

"Isabella needed that win to solidify her position. It was all for show. Don't be angry with her."

"Take all your anger out on me. Let's just not fight anymore, alright?"

His hand wound around mine, our fingers lacing together.

"And hey, didn't you want that tattoo? Let's go get it done tomorrow, okay?"

I didn't speak, just turned my head to the side.

I used a tissue to stanch the blood from my nose, not wanting him to see me in such a pathetic state.

He mistook my silence for lingering anger and pulled out his phone, showing me classified files to prove their relationship was purely professional.

They detailed all of Isabella's dirty dealings, every single rendezvous recorded.

There were also piles of intelligence analysis and deployment notes in his memos.

He was so deeply invested in Isabella. Far more than he ever was in me, his wife.

He glanced at the bloodstain on my dress and immediately went to find the first-aid kit, kneeling before me to tend to my wound.

His movements were deft, practiced, as if he had done this countless times.

He kept murmuring, his focus elsewhere.

"Isabella's a lunatic. Always getting herself banged up on missions. I’m constantly patching her up just like this."

"She's so young, but her methods are ruthless. In a few more years, she'll be a force to be reckoned with."

He spoke tirelessly, not noticing the color draining from my face.

He was so lost in his perverse admiration for Isabella that he hadn't even noticed he was tending to my arm, not my foot where he thought the injury was.

I pulled my hand back. The sudden movement jolted him to reality.

He then wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight.

"Elara, I'm sorry. I've always seen her as... my most valuable weapon."

"As her handler, it's my job to keep the weapon sharp, right?"

"Get some sleep. We have our tattoo appointment tomorrow."

He dismissed my pain with a few placating words, even bringing me a glass of warm milk.

Without another look at me, he disappeared into his study.

A while later, I heard him calling his most trusted men to the house.

I was already a light sleeper, and the successive sounds of the front door opening and closing made rest impossible.

Through the low murmur of men's voices, one sharp female voice cut through, grating on my nerves.

It was Isabella.

"Dante, don't be too hard on Elara. She's a Principessa, raised in a gilded cage. She can't possibly understand our world of blood and shadows. She’s just a beautiful, boring ice queen. Don't argue with her."

My heart felt like it was being shredded.

Everyone believed Dante's wife was a mere figurehead.

I waited, holding my breath, for him to refute her, to defend my honor as his wife.

But all I heard was silence. So, he agreed. He'd married a boring woman.

Tears welled in my eyes, and a hot rage tightened in my chest.

But the farce continued.

A drunk Soldato started to jeer.

I picked up my phone, my fingertips trembling so badly I could barely hold it, and opened the security feed for the study.

One of his men, a Made Man, got drunk and sidled up to Dante.

"Boss, you married the Moretti Principessa and got half of New York. Ever regret it?"

They had asked this question before.

Last year, I was sitting right beside him. He had smashed his glass on the spot.

"Anyone who asks that question again can get the hell out of my territory."

Back then, he had taken my hand and led me away, his eyes blazing.

He said he didn't want our marriage discussed like a transaction, that I was the only wife he would ever acknowledge.

But now, he was silent. A chilling silence fell over the room.

Just as everyone thought he wouldn't answer, he suddenly spoke.

"I regret it."

"She's too calm, too boring. An iceberg. I admit, she can't satisfy me."

"Every time I look at that perfectly composed face, all I can think is that she's getting old, and I'm still in my prime."

The phone slipped from my grasp, landing on the plush carpet with a muffled thud.

The men in the study froze, but Dante continued, his voice chillingly nonchalant.

"Don't worry, I had someone put something in her milk. She's dead to the world."

"I was afraid she'd make a scene if she saw Isabella."

Fireworks of pain exploded in my head, the raw, physical agony bringing tears streaming down my face.

So, this was how he saw me. This was how worthless I was in his heart.

Tomorrow was our tenth wedding anniversary, and I didn't have much time left.

A warm, metallic taste filled my mouth as blood trickled from my nose again. The sharp pain in my lungs forced me to curl up on the bed.

And their charade continued.

Isabella followed Dante onto the balcony.

She seemed to be questioning him intensely, Dante's expression growing darker by the second.

After their argument, he suddenly grabbed the back of her head and kissed her fiercely.

Isabella straddled the railing, her legs wrapped around his waist, her breath coming in rushed, chaotic gasps.

She gazed at him, tracing the line of his jaw with her lips before deepening the kiss herself.

The sounds of their heated panting crackled through the screen.

When the kiss broke, a string of saliva connected their lips for a fleeting moment.

Isabella suddenly looked up, her gaze provocative, aimed directly at the security camera.

As if she knew I was watching.

I let the blood from my mouth and nose flow freely, a pathetic, wretched sight.

Yes, we had survived ten years of suspicion and testing, but we couldn't withstand the allure of new blood and raw desire.

It was for the best. My corpse wouldn't bear a matching tattoo with him.

I should have realized it long ago. Isabella was different.

I should have seen it in the restrained, possessive way he always looked at her.

Dante pushed Isabella away and straightened his collar.

"I have a wife. This stops here."

"You all should go, too. It's too loud. I don't want to wake her."

He shooed everyone out.

I frantically wiped the blood from my face, lay down, and pretended to be asleep.

He quietly entered the room and wrapped his arms around me from behind.

His voice was a gentle whisper.

"Elara, I love you."

Hollow words. Offered far, far too late.

I said nothing, just listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing until dawn.

My phone vibrated. A calendar reminder from the tattoo artist.

I quickly dimmed the screen, but the movement stirred Dante awake beside me.

"Elara, get up. We're going to get the tattoo."

Our eyes met. My face was sallow and gaunt from a sleepless night.

A flash of disgust crossed his eyes.

"Why do you look so haggard? You could learn a thing or two from Isabella. She's always bursting with energy."

He paid no mind to my feelings and turned to go to the bathroom.

I spoke to his retreating back.

"Dante, I don't want the tattoo anymore."

"Dante, let's get a divorce."

He didn't break his stride, disappearing into the bathroom.

A few moments later, he sauntered back toward me, clearly not taking me seriously.

"Elara, why aren't you up yet?"

"Hurry up. I don't have all day. I have a ten o'clock meeting to clean up another one of Isabella's messes."

He walked to my side and leaned in, planting a perfunctory kiss on my lips.

My heart turned to stone. I bit down hard on his lower lip, tasting blood.

The metallic tang spread through our mouths. He straightened up, a hand flying to his lip in pain.

"I said," I repeated, my voice flat, "let's get a divorce."

His expression turned ugly, his face a mask of disbelief.

After all, for the past ten years, I had played the role of the calm, proper Mrs. Volkov, my temper worn smooth long ago.

He expected me to be obedient, without a single shred of defiance.

He dabbed at his bleeding lip, his eyes blazing with fury.

"We've been married for ten years. What are you terminating? Did you find a better backer than me?"

"Stop being irrational. You're not a naive girl anymore, and the Moretti family is a shadow of its former self. A divorce? Have you truly considered the consequences?"

Yes, my looks had faded, and my family's glory was a thing of the past.

He knew this was my weakest point, yet he stomped on it without a shred of mercy.

"Stop messing around. Get dressed. We're getting the tattoo. I don't have time to waste on this."

He looked impatient, as if gracing me with his company was an act of charity.

He always put Isabella and his business first.

Youth was her license to do as she pleased.

Too many times, she had used "not knowing the rules" as an excuse for crossing the line, and Dante never said no.

He always insisted it was a necessary part of controlling his pawn.

Seeing that I wasn't moving, he yanked me out of bed and roughly shoved me toward the door.

He floored the accelerator the moment we were in the car, and my whole world spun.

Before I could recover, he had dragged me into the studio of the city's most famous tattoo artist.

The assistants inside greeted him warmly. It seemed he was a regular.

Just as the artist was about to begin, a familiar voice called from the doorway.

"Dante, I'm here."

Isabella appeared out of nowhere.

"I heard you were here, so I rushed over. I got injured, and it might leave a scar. I need you to cover it up."

She spoke coquettishly, completely ignoring my presence.

She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a fresh scar on her forearm.

"Dante, tattoo your initial on me. Brand me as yours. Then no one will ever dare to touch me again."

Her gaze, when it met mine, was pure provocation.

Before I could say a word, Dante had already agreed.

"Elara, her situation is urgent. You wait. I'll take care of her first, and then we'll get yours done."

He didn't wait for my answer, pulling Isabella to sit in the chair meant for me.

I looked down and saw that my pristine white sleeve was already stained crimson from another nosebleed.

My last shred of hope crumbled to ash.

I took a black card from my bag, placed it on the table, and turned to leave.

I hailed a cab to the hospital. I had only taken a few steps from the curb when my vision went black, and I collapsed to the ground.

The paramedics put me on a stretcher and rushed me to my personal physician.

He looked at my test results, his expression grim.

"Your emotional distress has been too great. The cancer cells are spreading aggressively. It's... beyond our control now."

He let out a heavy, defeated sigh, his head dropping.

My nose wouldn't stop bleeding.

My phone was vibrating nonstop. It was Dante.

My fingertips trembled. I no longer had the strength to answer.

The doctor saw my pained expression, his face filled with pity, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

He took me to a quiet, private room. It was empty, not a soul in sight.

Only a sterile white ceiling above.

Every bone in my body felt like it had been dismantled and reassembled. The pain was so intense it had become a dull, all-encompassing numbness.

I closed my eyes, and the last ten years of my life flashed before them.

I took out my phone, my gaze falling on the black rose tattoo sketch we had designed together.

I forced a smile.

The phone's screen froze on that image.

I died full of regrets.