Chapter 6 Chapter 6

Seraphina POV:

The library door clicked shut.

The sound was quiet, but in the suddenly hushed room, it felt like a final verdict. Then the room erupted. Cheers, whistles, the clinking of glasses. They were toasting the reunion of the Don and his long-lost love.

I sat there, a statue in a navy silk dress, and felt a chilling finality lodge itself deep in my marrow. It was over. Not just the party, not just the night. Everything.

I had been the only one who ever took our vows seriously. He'd said them to save face. I'd said them because a secret, stupid part of me had hoped.

"You'd think she'd have some dignity," a woman whispered from a nearby table.

"I almost feel sorry for her," her friend agreed, her tone suggesting the opposite. "Almost. She needs to let him move on."

The words were meant for me to hear. Every head was turned in my direction, their eyes a sickening cocktail of pity and scorn. I couldn't breathe. The air was too thick with their judgment.

Unable to bear it another second, I stood up. My legs felt like water, but I willed them to lock. I was leaving.

Just as I turned, the library door opened.

A few minutes. It felt like a lifetime.

Dante and Isabella emerged, blinking in the sudden light. My eyes immediately found the evidence. Isabella's expression was one of pure triumph, a possessive light shining in her eyes that marked him as hers.

My heart, which I thought had been ground to dust, somehow found a way to fracture anew.

I managed to find my voice, though it sounded thin and distant, like it was coming from someone else. "I'm not feeling well. I'm going home."

No one heard me. Or if they did, they didn't care. Dante's eyes were only for Isabella, a soft, possessive look on his face that I had craved for seven years and never once received.

I walked out of the villa, a ghost leaving her own haunting. I called a car and sank into the back seat, the leather cold against my skin.

My phone buzzed. A video file from Isabella.

My fingers trembled as I pressed play. The screen was dark, lit only by the faint light from under the library door. I could hear their breathing.

"You left me at the altar nine times, Bella," Dante's voice was low, a rumble of old anger. "You ran off with another man."

Isabella's voice was a seductive purr. "And you married her. Are you happy, Dante? Is she a good wife?" A pause. "Will you divorce her for me?"

The silence that followed was the most painful sound I had ever heard. It stretched on, each second a new kind of torture. I waited for him to say my name, to defend our marriage, to say no.

His voice, when it finally came, was thick with an emotion I couldn't place. Regret? Longing?

"You know I can never say no to you."

The video ended.

My seven-year marriage, my entire adult life, turned to ash.

I ignored the follow-up texts from Isabella, little digital daggers of triumph I didn't need to see. I arrived back at the cold, empty De Luca mansion and walked straight to our master bathroom.

I twisted my wedding ring. The platinum was heavy, the diamond cold. A seven-year contract. A gilded cage.

I dropped it into the toilet bowl. It hit the porcelain with a small, insignificant clink.

I pressed the handle and watched it swirl, the diamond catching the light one last time before it was sucked away into the darkness.

A sense of liberation, sharp and clean, washed over me. I was free.

I finished packing the last of my things. My design portfolio, the worn photograph of my mother, the few clothes that weren't bought by him.

The front door of the mansion burst open, slamming against the wall.

Dante stood in the entryway, his face a mask of cold fury. Behind him, clinging to his arm and sobbing into his chest, was Isabella.

He stalked toward me, his eyes boring into me with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. "You took her necklace," he stated, not asked. His voice was a blade of deadly calm. "Give it back now, and we can forget this happened. Or we handle this with the full weight of the De Luca name."

It was a setup. Of course it was. "I didn't take anything, Dante."

"Don't lie to me."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "In seven years, have I ever once asked you for a single thing? Have I ever coveted anything in this entire empire you're so proud of?"

He faltered. For half a second, I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

Isabella seized the moment. "It was a gift from you, Dante!" she wailed, clutching at him. "It's priceless to me!" She reached a hand toward me, as if to plead.

My patience snapped. I flinched away from her touch. "Don't you dare touch me."

Isabella stumbled back dramatically, collapsing against Dante's chest. "See?" she cried. "She's a thief! She has always been jealous of what I have!"

My blood ran cold. The air left my lungs. "What did you say?"

Isabella looked up at Dante, her eyes shining with fake tears and real venom. "She has always been jealous of me. People like her are never satisfied."

My control, the iron-clad restraint I had practiced for seven miserable years, shattered into a million pieces.

Before my mind could protest, my hand flew.

The sound of my palm connecting with her cheek-a sharp, satisfying crack that split the suffocating silence-echoed through the grand foyer.

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