Chapter 5

Sienna POV

Valeria didn't just cry.

She crumbled.

She snatched a steak knife from the table, pressing the serrated edge against her wrist with trembling hands.

"I can't live with this shame!" she wailed, her tear-filled eyes locking onto Dante. "She ruined me! Everyone has seen it!"

It was a performance.

I knew it.

Even Gia, who was pouring wine in the corner as part of her cover, knew it.

But Dante?

Dante saw a damsel in distress.

He slapped the knife from Valeria's grip and crushed her against his chest, shielding her from the world.

Then, he turned his gaze on me.

It was a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

"You wanted to make a scene?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft. "You wanted to bring the gutter into my house?"

He signaled to Rocco.

"Bring the crates."

My blood ran cold.

Rocco hesitated, glancing nervously at the guests. "Boss, this is a formal dinne-"

"BRING THEM!" Dante roared, the sound vibrating through the crystal glasses.

Two soldiers scrambled out, returning moments later lugging heavy wooden crates from the kitchen.

The stench hit the room instantly.

Rotting fish guts. A thick, cloying wave of waste from the day's catch, meant for the disposal unit.

Dante pointed a shaking finger at me.

"You act like trash, you get treated like trash."

He grabbed the first crate.

He didn't hesitate.

He upended it over my head.

Slime, scales, and cold blood cascaded down my hair. It ruined the pristine white dress, soaking into my skin, chilling me to the bone.

The smell was vomit-inducing.

The room went deathly silent.

Even the cruelest of the wives looked away, unable to stomach the sight.

Dante stood over me, his chest heaving.

"You belong in the gutter, Sienna. Don't ever forget that."

I stood there.

Dripping.

Slowly, deliberately, I wiped a fish scale from my eyelid.

I looked at him.

I didn't cry.

I didn't flinch.

I didn't tremble.

Something inside me-the last fragile piece of the girl who hoped he might still love her-finally snapped.

It broke clean off.

I looked at Valeria, who was smirking into Dante's shirt.

I looked at Dante, the King who was nothing more than a tyrant in a bespoke suit.

I reached into my pocket.

My fingers brushed against the cold glass of the vial.

Okay, I thought.

You want a tragedy?

I'll give you a tragedy.

I turned and walked out of the room, leaving a glistening trail of slime on the expensive Persian rug.

I wasn't walking away in shame.

I was walking toward my grave.

And he was coming with me.