Sofia sat there, casually adjusting the rearview mirror. She wore a white dress that clung to her frame, deliberately emphasizing the swell of her bump. She peered up at me, her eyes wide and sickeningly innocent.

"Oh, Elena! I get so car sick in the back. You don't mind, do you?"

Dante was already in the driver's seat. He didn't look at me. His grip was tight on the wheel as he started the engine, the rumble of the motor vibrating through the chassis.

"Get in the back, Elena," he said, his voice flat. "We're late."

I stood frozen on the pavement for a heartbeat, the humiliation burning across my cheeks like a physical slap.

I was the wife.

I was the Donna.

And I was being relegated to the back seat like a bodyguard.

Swallowing the bile in my throat, I climbed in silently and pulled the door shut.

The drive was a slow, suffocating torture.

Dante adjusted the AC vent, angling it so the cool air blew directly on Sofia. When we hit a bump, his hand shot out to steady her knee, his touch instinctive and tender.

"Are you okay?" he asked her softly.

"I'm fine, Dante," she purred, placing her hand over his. "You take such good care of us."

Us.

She was including him in the pregnancy. With one plural pronoun, she was erasing me from the narrative entirely.

We arrived at the banquet hall, the air thick with the scent of cigar smoke and expensive, cloying perfume. The Chicago Outfit was out in full force.

Dante walked in with Sofia on his arm, a king with his chosen queen. I trailed behind them, a ghost draped in blue silk.

The whispers started immediately, cutting through the ambient jazz.

"That's her," a woman dripping in diamonds hissed behind her fan. "The barren one."

"I heard she slept with the Russians," another whispered, her eyes hungry for scandal. "That's why Dante took Sofia. To cleanse the bloodline."

My stomach churned. Dante had planted the rumors himself. He had sacrificed my reputation to protect Sofia's illegitimacy. He had painted me as the whore to make his oath to her father look noble.

I found a quiet corner and stood there, clutching a glass of sparkling water like a lifeline. I didn't drink alcohol anymore; my body was still too fragile, still recovering.

A group of wives approached me. They were Sofia's friends-hyenas in couture, sensing a wounded animal.

"Elena," one of them sneered, scanning me from head to toe. "Enjoying the party? It must be hard, watching someone else do the one job you couldn't."

"Excuse me," I said, keeping my voice steady as I tried to move past them.

They shifted, blocking my path.

"Oops," the woman said, tilting her glass with exaggerated clumsiness.

Red wine cascaded down the front of my pale blue dress. It soaked into the silk instantly, dark and viscous. It looked like blood.

"Clumsy me," she laughed, the sound brittle and cruel.

The others giggled in unison.

"Trash," one of them muttered under her breath. "Russian mattress."

Something inside me snapped. The tether of my control frayed.

"Get out of my way," I said, my voice low and vibrating with suppressed rage.

"Or what?" the woman taunted, stepping closer. "You'll cry to Dante? He's busy with his real family."

She shoved me. It wasn't a hard shove, but we were standing by the decorative indoor pool, and the tiles were slick.

My heel caught on the edge.

I flailed, grasping at empty air, too weak to regain my balance.

I fell backward into the water.

The cold shock was instant. I sank, the heavy, waterlogged silk of my dress dragging me down like an anchor. For a second, suspended in the blue silence, I didn't want to come up.

It was peaceful down here.

Then, strong hands grabbed my arms. I was hauled to the surface, gasping for air, water streaming from my nose and mouth.

Dante pulled me out onto the tiles. He was soaking wet, his expensive suit ruined. He had jumped in after me.

The music had stopped. The entire hall was staring in stunned silence.

Dante looked furious. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his eyes were wild, a storm of adrenaline and rage.

He turned to the group of women.

"Who did this?" he roared, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

The women shrank back, terrified by the monster they had awoken.

"She slipped," the wine-spiller stammered, her face draining of color. "She's drunk, Dante. Look at her."

Dante looked down at me.

He saw the wine stain spreading like a wound. He saw the bruising on my forehead where I must have struck the edge. He saw the shivering wreck of his wife.

He ripped off his sodden jacket and wrapped it around my trembling shoulders.

"She is my wife!" he shouted to the room, his voice a thunderclap. "Even if she is barren, even if she carries the shame of the Russians, she is mine! Anyone who touches her disrespects me!"

It was a defense.

But it was twisted.

He was defending his property, not my honor. He confirmed the lies while saving my life.

He scooped me up in his arms and carried me toward the exit, his stride long and angry.

"Put me down," I whispered, my teeth chattering violently.

"Shut up," he growled against my ear. "You're embarrassing me."

He took me to the safe room at the back of the hall and dumped me onto the leather sofa.

He began to pace the small room, water dripping from his clothes onto the carpet.

"Why can't you just be invisible?" he yelled, running a hand through his wet hair. "Why do you have to provoke them?"

"I provoke them by existing," I said, my voice hollow. "By reminding them that your 'true love' is a mistress."

He stopped pacing. He looked at me, and for a second, the anger faded, replaced by a profound exhaustion.

"It won't be forever, Elena. Once the baby is born... once the Russians are dealt with... I'll send her away. I promise."

"It's too late," I said.

He knelt in front of me, reaching out to touch my wet hair. His fingers were warm against my freezing skin.

"You're cold," he murmured.

"I've been cold for a long time, Dante."

He pulled me against his chest. I didn't fight him. I just lay there, soaking his shirt, feeling absolutely nothing.

He thought he was saving me.

He didn't realize I had already drowned.

I pushed him away gently.

"Go back to your party," I said, turning my face away. "Go back to the mother of your heir."

"Elena..."

"Go."

He hesitated, torn, but eventually, he stood up. He left me shivering in the safe room, closing the door softly behind him.

I waited until I heard the lock click.

Then I stood up, water pooling at my feet, and walked out the back exit.

I hailed a taxi on the street corner.

I didn't give the driver the address to the estate.

I didn't go home.

Chapter 4

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