Chapter 3

I had converted the east wing of the estate into a studio.

It used to be a storage area for Dante's old gym equipment, a graveyard of rusted iron and leather. Now, it smelled of graphite, cedar shavings, and fresh paper.

I called Maria, my old architecture professor.

"I'm ready," I had told her on the phone, my voice trembling slightly. "I want to start my own firm. Small. Anonymous. But I need to work."

"It's about time, Elara," she had replied, her tone fierce. "You were the best student I've had in twenty years. Don't let that talent rot in a mobster's kitchen."

That afternoon, I was hunched over a draft for a library renovation when the door opened.

It was our third anniversary.

Dante walked in. He was wearing a tuxedo, the black fabric absorbing the afternoon light. He looked devastatingly handsome, yet his eyes held their usual glazed indifference.

He looked around the room, taking in the drafting tables, the models, the pinned-up sketches.

"What is all this?" he asked.

"I'm working," I said, not looking up from my blueprint, grounding myself in the straight lines of the drawing. "I'm starting a firm."

He let out a short, dismissive breath. "A firm? Elara, we don't need the money. And it's a security risk. You meeting clients? Being out in the open?"

"I'll use a pseudonym," I said, my grip tightening on my pencil. "And I need this, Dante. I need something that is mine."

He walked over and tapped a finger on my blueprint, leaving a smudge. "It's a cute hobby. But don't let it distract you from your actual duties."

My actual duties. Being seen and not heard. Warming his bed on the rare nights he came home.

"Is that why you're here?" I asked, finally meeting his gaze. "To critique my hobby?"

"It's our anniversary," he said. He checked his watch. "We have a reservation at Le Monde. 8:00 PM."

My heart did a traitorous little stutter. Le Monde was impossible to get into.

"You remembered," I said softly.

"My assistant remembered," he corrected flatly.

He pulled a velvet box from his pocket and placed it on the drafting table. Next to it, he laid a single long-stemmed pink rose.

"Happy anniversary," he muttered.

I reached for the box, a foolish spark of hope igniting in my chest.

Then, his phone buzzed.

He looked at the screen. His expression shifted instantly. The boredom vanished, replaced by sharp alertness.

"I have to take this," he said.

He walked to the window, turning his back to me. "Bella? Slow down. What's wrong?"

I froze, my hand hovering over the velvet box.

"Okay," he said, his voice dropping to a soothing register I rarely heard. "Okay, I'm coming. Stay there."

He hung up and turned to me.

"Change of plans," he said. "We need to go."

"Go where?" I asked, my hand retracting. "Dinner?"

"We're stopping by the grand opening of The Sapphire Room first," he said. "Isabella is managing it. She's... having a crisis with the staff."

"Dante," I said, my voice tight. "It's our anniversary."

"It will take twenty minutes," he snapped, already moving toward the door. "Get your coat."

We drove in silence.

The Sapphire Room was a high-end lounge, a front for the Family's money laundering, but on the surface, it was all glitz and glamour.

We walked in. Isabella was standing near the bar, looking frantic in a silver dress that fit her like a second skin.

When she saw Dante, she didn't just smile. She beamed.

"You came!" she cried, rushing over. She linked her arm through his, pulling him close as if she owned the space he occupied. She glanced at me. "Oh. Hi, Elara. Thanks for lending him to me."

"He's not a library book," I said.

Dante ignored me. "What's the problem, Bella?"

"The band cancelled," she said, pouting. "And the flowers are all wrong. It's a disaster."

"We'll fix it," Dante said soothingly.

Then, he did something that stopped my heart.

He reached into his pocket. He pulled out the velvet box. The one he had put on my drafting table moments ago.

"Here," he said, handing it to Isabella. "For good luck on your opening night."

Isabella squealed. She opened the box. It was a diamond bracelet.

"Dante!" she gasped. "It's beautiful."

She threw her arms around his neck.

He looked over her shoulder at me. He didn't look guilty. He looked practical. Like he had just solved a logistical problem using the nearest available asset.

"And the rose," Isabella said, seeing the flower in his other hand. "Pink. My favorite."

He handed her the rose too.

"Happy opening," he said.

I stood there in my anniversary dress, watching my husband give my anniversary gift to his mistress.

I wasn't the wife. I was the courier. I was just the transportation method he used to get the diamonds from the estate to her wrist.

I turned around and walked toward the bar.

*Minus fifteen.*