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?"

Elara POV:

The nurse rounded on him, planting her hands on her hips. "We've been calling you for hours! Your wife was brought into the ER, bleeding, and you were nowhere to be found."

Dante's jaw tightened, but his voice was flat, devoid of apology. "Isabella was in shock," he said. "I had to ensure she was secure. I didn't know Elara was injured."

He didn't know. He never knew. He never looked.

I looked at him, the man I had loved with every fiber of my being, and felt a chilling calm settle deep in my bones. "What brings you here now, Mr. Moretti?"

He flinched at the formal address. "I was bringing Isabella to her psychiatrist. I saw your name on the patient list at the front desk."

A coincidence. Of course. A bitter, silent laugh bubbled in my chest, lodging in my throat like a stone.

His phone buzzed-a text. Isabella, no doubt. He glanced at it, then back at me. "I'll be back later." He turned to leave without another word.

"Don't bother."

The words were quiet, but they stopped him in his tracks. He stood there for a long moment, his back a rigid wall, before walking out.

A desperate, foolish part of me had to see. I had to be sure. I forced myself out of bed, ignoring the sharp protests of my body. I followed him down the hall, my hospital gown rustling. I saw him enter an office at the end of the corridor. A psychiatrist's office.

Through the one-way glass of the waiting room, I watched. He was holding Isabella's hand, his expression a mask of tender concern I had never-not once-seen directed at me. Through the thick glass, I could just make out the doctor's calm, professional tone explaining that Isabella was suffering from severe PTSD, a result of her previous abusive marriage and exacerbated by the recent "attack." She needed the constant, unwavering presence of someone she trusted implicitly.

Dante's face hardened. After settling Isabella in the office, he stepped out into the hall and made a call, his back to me.

"Find out everything about her ex-husband," he commanded, his voice low and lethal. "And prep the jet. I'm taking her away from the city for a while. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe."

The bitter truth crashed over me in a final, suffocating wave.

Dante wasn't incapable of love. He was an ocean of it.

He simply wasn't in love with me.

I would end this. This sham of a marriage. I would set him free from the vow that bound him to me.

And in doing so, I would finally set myself free.