Chapter 3

Seraphina Caruso POV

The new apartment smelled of curing concrete and sharp, chemical fresh paint. It was stark, industrial, and utterly mine.

I sat on the floor, my back pressed against the cold wall, the blue light of my laptop cutting through the gloom.

Dante's threats were cascading down my screen, piling up in a suffocating stack of notifications.

Answer me.

You are embarrassing me.

I will kill anyone who helps you.

I opened his contact card. My thumb hovered over the red block button.

Before I could press it, a new notification slid down from the top of the screen. Instagram.

Isabella_Falcone_Gallo requested to follow you.

The sheer audacity was almost impressive.

I accepted.

Immediately, a direct message popped up.

It was a photo.

Dante was slumped in a booth at The Velvet Room, his tie undone, a glass of whiskey tilting dangerously in his hand. He looked sloppy. Weak.

The caption read: He's so heartbroken over the wedding stress. Poor baby needs his real wife.

A second message followed. A voice note.

I tapped play.

Dante's voice filled my empty loft, slurring and heavy with liquor. "Isabella... baby... don't marry him... I love you... only you. She means nothing. She's just a calculator with tits."

\The recording ended with a wet, sloppy sound that could only be a clumsy kiss.

A third message. A photo of two pairs of legs tangled in satin sheets. The Grand Hyatt. Suite 8808. Come see who he really belongs to.

And finally, one word: Loser.

I stared at the phone.

Pain? No.

Anger? No.

It was clarity. Pure, crystalline clarity.

They deserved each other. The weak King and the spoiled Princess.

With the precision of a surgeon, I opened my banking app. I navigated to a digital gift card service.

I selected a generic retail store.

Amount: $1.00.

Recipient: Isabella Falcone.

Message: No returns on used goods. Buy yourself some taste.

I hit send.

Then I went to Isabella's profile. Block.

I went to Dante's profile. Block.

I went to his number. Block.

The silence that followed was heavy, but it wasn't empty. It was the sound of the trash taking itself out.

I set the phone down on the floor.

Thirty seconds later, it lit up again.

Unknown Number.

Grand Hyatt. Suite 8808. He's passed out. Come watch me wake him up.

She was using a burner now. She wanted an audience. She wanted me to show up and scream and cry so she could feel superior.

She wanted a show?

Fine.

I would give her a production she would never forget.