Elara POV:

The next morning, I met with a lawyer. His office was a cramped, windowless room with no name on the door, and the man himself looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. For a divorce, taking on the Moretti Family wasn't just a bad career move; it was professional suicide.

"I want you to draft a divorce petition," I said, my voice even. "And a non-disclosure agreement. I want nothing from him. I just want to be free."

He swallowed hard. "Mrs. Moretti, are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything."

I left his office and drove to the hospital. The soup I'd had the cook prepare felt heavy in my hands, a useless offering. Dante's private suite was guarded by two of his most loyal men. They nodded at me, their faces grim, and let me pass.

The scene inside stole the air from my lungs.

Isabella was perched on the edge of his bed, fussing with the bandages on his arm. She was clumsy, making him wince.

"Oh, Dante, I'm so sorry," she cried, plump tears tracing paths down her perfect cheeks. "Does it hurt terribly?"

"It's nothing," he soothed, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it. He caught her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles.

"The doctor said..." she sniffled, "he said the burns are deep. You might have permanent nerve damage. A weakness a Don can't afford to show."

"It doesn't matter," Dante said, his eyes locked on her. "I was already planning to step back from public operations. It has nothing to do with the fire." He paused, his gaze turning distant. "There was this legitimate business I wanted to start, years ago. An architectural firm. You once said you admired a man who ran one. I thought... I thought you remembered."

Isabella's breath hitched. She fell into his arms, burying her face in his uninjured shoulder. "Oh, Dante."

He held her, his good arm wrapping around her, holding her tight. For a moment, he closed his eyes, a look of profound, agonizing peace on his face.

The soup container slipped from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor. Neither of them so much as flinched.

I backed away-a ghost in my own marriage-and slipped out of the room unseen.

At the hospital entrance, a group of Dante's most trusted Soldiers stopped me. They looked grave.

"Mrs. Moretti," the one in charge said, his voice low and formal. He handed me a sealed manila envelope. "The Don had standing orders. In the event he was... incapacitated, this was to be delivered to you. Immediately."

"Of course," I murmured.

I waited until I was back in my car to open it. It was a detailed strategic plan, a complete restructuring of the Moretti empire. It outlined a shift toward legitimate businesses, with a new, massive investment in a high-end architectural design and construction firm. It was brilliant, ruthless, and visionary.

And it was all contingent on one thing.

I read the final line of the executive summary, the words blurring through my tears.

"With the return of my true north, the final phase of the Moretti revitalization can now commence."

His true north. Isabella.

I finally understood. His empire, his ambition, his entire world was built for her.

I had never even been on the map.

Elara POV:

"I'm leaving him."

The words felt foreign on my tongue, spoken over the phone to my old architecture professor. She didn't sound surprised.

"Good," was all she said. "Your portfolio is still the most brilliant I've ever seen. The world needs your buildings, Elara. Where will you go?"

"Somewhere new," I said, a spark of something I hadn't felt in years igniting in the hollow of my chest. "I'm starting my own firm."

In the days that followed, I turned an unused wing of the sprawling, cold estate into a vibrant studio. I unrolled my old blueprints, the passion I had sacrificed to be the perfect Don's wife flooding back into me. The scent of graphite and paper was like coming home.

On our third wedding anniversary-a date the entire Chicago Outfit acknowledged-Dante found me there, sketching, my world narrowed to the page. He stood in the doorway for a long time, watching me.

"I'm relaunching my career," I told him without looking up. "I won't be available to host your business dinners anymore."

A flicker of something-annoyance? surprise?-crossed his face. "Of course," he said, the support in his voice hollow. "It's good for you to have a hobby."

A hobby. The word wasn't just a dismissal-it was a pat on the head. I almost asked him then if he'd support a divorce, but his phone rang. He disappeared into his study. I heard her voice, sharp and demanding, even through the thick oak door.

That evening, he surprised me.

"Get dressed," he said. "We're going to dinner." A rare gesture. A peace offering for my "hobby," perhaps.

He dropped me at the entrance of a lavish new restaurant, a Moretti acquisition, while he went to park his car. The valet rushed to open my door.

When Dante returned, he was holding a small, elegantly wrapped designer gift box and a massive bouquet of pink roses. A wild, foolish hope flared to life in my chest. He handed them to me.

"Happy anniversary," he murmured, his eyes unreadable.

Just then, Isabella appeared at the restaurant's entrance, a vision in red. She sauntered toward Dante, her hand landing possessively on his arm.

"Dante, darling, you came." She turned to me, her smile pure saccharine. "You must be Elara. Dante talks so much about his... arrangement."

Before I could react, Dante took the gift box from my hands and gave it to Isabella.

"A small token for your grand opening," he said, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. Then, he plucked the bouquet from my grasp. "And flowers for the new proprietress."

Isabella gasped with delight, burying her face in the roses. "Oh, Dante! You remembered! This specific florist, the exact shade of pink I love!"

The hope that had flared in my chest didn't just die. It was doused in gasoline and set ablaze.

The gifts, the dinner, the entire evening-it was all for her.

I was just the delivery service.

Elara POV:

Isabella led Dante on a tour of her restaurant, her voice laced with a silken triumph. "It's exactly as I described it to you, all those years ago. The velvet booths, the gold accents... every detail."

"'A place where danger and beauty can drink together,'" Dante recited, his voice a low rumble. Words she'd spoken a lifetime ago, yet he had them etched in his memory.

A delicate hand flew to her chest in feigned surprise. "You remembered."

He smiled, a true, unguarded smile I hadn't seen in years. "Does your offer to make me a partner still stand?"

"A Don is too important for that," she demurred, her eyes glittering with a predatory light.

I followed them like a shadow, a weight settling so heavily in my chest it stole my breath.

In the private dining room, Dante ordered for the table without a glance at the menu. Pan-seared scallops, truffle risotto, a bottle of vintage Barolo. All of Isabella's favorites.

"You know me so well," she purred, then her gaze flickered to me, a calculated performance of pity that felt more like a dismissal. "Dante, let your wife choose something. We should be good hosts."

He slid a menu across the table to me. "I don't know what you like. Order for yourself."

Three years of marriage, and he didn't know if I preferred fish or steak. I felt erased, as if the last three years of my life had been written in invisible ink.

"Excuse me," I mumbled, pushing my chair back and fleeing to the restroom.

Isabella followed me. She cornered me by the marble sinks, her reflection in the mirror sharp and predatory.

"He's only with you out of duty to your father," she whispered, her voice a silken, venomous thread. "A vow of honor. It has nothing to do with love. A real woman knows when to walk away."

Suddenly, a deep, groaning sound echoed from above. The massive crystal chandelier hanging over our heads swayed violently, its supports giving way. Sabotage. A message from a rival Family.

It plummeted towards us.

Dante moved like lightning, a predator reacting to a threat. In a blur of motion, he crossed the room, yanked Isabella into his arms, and shielded her with his body as the world exploded in a shower of glass and metal.

I was thrown sideways by the impact. A searing pain shot through my side. I looked down and saw red blooming across my dress.

The world went black.

I woke up in a sterile hospital room. I was alone. The pain in my side was a dull, throb-bing ache. Wincing, I reached for my purse on the nightstand, my fingers fumbling for the black ledger inside. I subtracted ten points.

A nurse bustled in, her eyes, kind and curious, falling on the book.

"What's this, dear?" she asked, her voice soft.

"A marriage ledger," I whispered, my voice a hoarse rasp. "When it reaches zero, I'm getting a divorce. Only ten points left."

The door opened. Dante stood there, his expression unreadable, his suit immaculate. He'd heard me.

"What ten points?"