Chapter 4

Alessia POV:

The next few days were a blur of digital excision. I unfollowed Caden, Isabella, and their entire glittering, cold circle on every social media platform, methodically muting keywords and blocking accounts. I was performing an amputation, cutting away the gangrenous limb of my old life.

A few days later, a message slipped through from an account I didn't recognize. It was Isabella, using a friend's profile. The message was a single image: her hand, resting on Caden's, a massive, canary yellow diamond on her ring finger. It was bigger than mine had been. A statement. A clear, triumphant upgrade.

I stared at the picture and felt... nothing. A vast, empty calm. It was like looking at a picture of two strangers. I took a screenshot, clinically saved it to a hidden folder on my phone, and blocked the account.

The emptiness held. It was still there an hour later when Mrs. Gambino from next door brought over a lasagna, her eyes full of a pity I couldn't stand. She'd known me since I was a little girl.

"That man was here," she said, her voice laced with old-world disgust. "Caden. Poking around, asking where you were. I told him to get lost." She made a spitting gesture. "And that girl, Isabella. Puttana. Your mother never liked her."

I just nodded, pushing a piece of pasta around my plate.

"Your mother told me once," Mrs. Gambino continued softly, "'My Ally deserves better than a king. She deserves a man who sees she is a queen.'"

"He was my whole world," I admitted, the words tasting like ash.

"He never should have been," she replied, her hand covering mine. "The world is much bigger than one man, cara."

That night, sleeping in my mother's bed, I dreamed of Caden. We were on a swing set in a park. He was pushing me gently, his voice a low murmur. I'll always take care of you, Ally. You're mine.

I woke up with tears on my cheeks, the phantom feeling of his hands on my back. The dream hadn't been a comfort; it had been a cage. His promise wasn't one of protection. It was a claim.

The next morning, while searching for a spare key in my mother's junk drawer, my fingers brushed against a folded piece of paper. It was a vet bill.

Dated six months prior. For Caesar, Isabella's Doberman.

The reason for the visit: "unprovoked aggression toward a stranger." The vet's notes were clear: "Recommended muzzle for public walks and immediate behavioral consultation." Underneath, in bold, it read: "Owner declined all recommendations."

Isabella knew. She knew her dog was a weapon, and she lied. And Caden... he either believed her lie or, worse, simply didn't care enough to question it.

My new burner phone rang. A number I didn't recognize. It was Caden.

"I've been trying to reach you," he said, his voice tight with frustration. "We need to talk about your mother's estate. And the ring. My family's accountants need to settle things."

"My mother had no assets," I said, my voice flat. "And I don't have the ring."

"What do you mean you don't have it?" he demanded, his voice rising.

"I mean you should have kept better track of your things," I retorted.

I hung up, leaving the vet bill sitting on the kitchen table. The final piece of the puzzle, clicking into place. It confirmed everything I now knew to be true: His only concerns were money and control.

My resolve to leave, which had been crystallizing into a firm decision, now hardened into steel.