Chapter 3

Isabella POV:

The tray tipped. Hot soup and glasses flew through the air.

Without a moment's hesitation, Giovanni threw himself in front of Sofia, shielding her with his own body. He grunted as the scalding liquid splashed across his back, but his only concern was her.

"Sofia! Are you okay? Are you hurt?" he asked frantically, his hands checking her face, her arms, his voice laced with pure panic.

"I'm fine, Gio," she said, her voice a little shaken. "Just a few drops on my arm. But you..."

He pulled her into his arms, ignoring the mess and the pain. "It's nothing. As long as you're not hurt." He picked her up as if she weighed nothing and rushed toward the exit, shouting for someone to call a doctor.

He never once looked back at me.

He didn't see the large puddle of broth that had splashed onto my lap, soaking through my dress and searing my thigh. A raw, burning pain shot up my leg, so intense it made my eyes water.

He was gone. He had chosen, again, in a moment of pure instinct. And I was not his choice.

I gritted my teeth against the pain, stood up on shaky legs, and walked out of the restaurant alone. I took a cab to the nearest emergency clinic, my thigh throbbing with every bump in the road.

The doctor said it was a second-degree burn. They cleaned it, applied ointment, and wrapped it in layers of white gauze. I did it all by myself.

Later that night, scrolling through my phone in my sterile, lonely room, I saw Sofia's latest post. A picture of Giovanni gently applying cream to the small red mark on her arm. His expression was one of absolute devotion.

Her caption read: `My hero. So lucky to have a man who would walk through fire for me. `

The pain in my leg was nothing compared to the hollow ache that spread through my chest. He had always been attentive, bringing me flowers, remembering anniversaries. But seeing him with her, I understood. With me, it had been a routine. With her, it was an instinct. It was love.

My phone buzzed. It was Giovanni.

`Just heard what happened. I'm so sorry, Bella. I had to get Sofia checked out. How bad is it?`

I didn't reply.

An hour later, he showed up at my door. He saw the thick bandage on my leg and his face paled with guilt.

"Bella... I'm so sorry," he said, rushing to my side. He had already called a private specialist, who was on their way with the best burn treatments available. It was an over-the-top gesture meant to erase his negligence.

He sat on the edge of my bed and started to unwrap the bandage himself, his touch surprisingly gentle. "I should have checked on you," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "It's just... with Sofia's condition, my first thought was to protect her. From now on, I swear, you will be my priority."

It was a beautiful lie.

"It's alright, Giovanni," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "You don't need to make promises you can't keep. After all, I'm Domenico's companion now, not yours."

He flinched as if I'd slapped him. "Don't say that. You're just angry. It's my fault." He took a small, velvet box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was a diamond necklace, glittering under the lamplight. "I was going to give this to you on our wedding day. Please, accept it. Let me take care of you."

I looked at the necklace, then back at his pleading face. I calmly pushed the box back into his hands.

"I can't accept this," I said. "It wouldn't be appropriate for your brother's companion to take such a gift from you."

I stood up, the pain in my leg a dull throb, and held the door open for him. He left, looking utterly defeated, the unopened gift still in his hand.

The following weeks were a blur of quiet healing and blatant disrespect. Giovanni was constantly by Sofia's side. To celebrate her "recovery," he threw her a lavish party in the estate gardens.

It was a fairytale scene. Thousands of twinkling lights were strung through the trees, and the air smelled of roses and champagne. Sofia wore a pale pink dress that made her look like a princess.

Giovanni, dressed in a sharp black suit, presented her with a series of extravagant gifts. A vintage sports car, a rare painting, a purebred white stallion. With each gift, the crowd oohed and aahed.

"They look so perfect together," I heard someone whisper behind me. "Like a prince and his princess. I feel sorry for Isabella Rossi. She never stood a chance."