The pain of yanking off the ring brought back a foggy memory from our third year together.

Giovanni had just secured his place in the family when the deadliest betrayal struck.

I took a knife meant for him. The wound got infected, and my fever wouldn't break. I was awake for barely ten minutes a day. Yet every time, he was there.

"Giovanni," I murmured weakly through the haze, "if I die, don't be sad. Don't drink so much. Eat on time…"

"Shut up!" The normally composed man suddenly erupted in fury.

His eyes were bloodshot. "Don't you dare die!"

That was the first and only time I saw him cry.

Even though he shouldn't have risked it, he stormed into the traitor's hideout with his men, getting seriously hurt himself.

I scolded him for being reckless, but through the pain, he shakily slipped a ring onto my finger. "You shouldn't bleed alone."

"What's this?"

"An engagement ring."

He kissed my finger. "Wear it all the time. Anyone who sees it will know you're mine."

Later, I learned it was forged from his mother's cross—the lucky charm he'd worn since childhood.

He kissed me with devotion and whispered, "If God only watches over one person, I pray it's your safety."

That ring stayed on my hand for seven years.

I gritted my teeth and yanked at the stubborn ring lodged on my knuckle. It hurt, but it felt freeing.

"Serena Bianchi! What are you doing?" Giovanni demanded sharply, unaware that the cigarette tip was burning his fingers.

Blood from my hand slicked the ring free.

I raised my hand and smashed it into his face. "Your love is worthless, just like you. Take back your ring. I find it dirty."

The ring left a streak of blood across his face and clattered at his feet.

Furious, he roared, "You think this will provoke me? Make me regret it? Stop the act! Go to Arvandor as I told you! That's your best ending! Without me, you're nothing!"

Without looking back, I turned and walked away.

The rain started again.

Giovanni seemed to yell something again, and hurried footsteps sounded behind me, though I couldn't make out his words.

Rain soon drenched my white dress, pressing the cold fabric against my skin. I kept moving forward, prepared to be soaked through.

Suddenly, beams of headlights cut through the downpour. A convoy of Maybachs roared up.

The man leading them jumped out of a car, holding a black umbrella over my head.

Amid the shocked gasps of everyone around, I was pulled into a warm, dry embrace.

"Don Rossi, you might want to take care of your own business first," the man said, his voice low and commanding. "I will take care of my fiancee."