Chapter 2

Seraphina POV:

Isabella's voice, feigning drunkenness and distress, was a calculated performance-a weaponized fragility I knew all too well. "Please, Dante? I'm scared to go home by myself."

Dante's hand, which had been resting on the seat between us, clenched into a fist. He slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching against the pavement as the car lurched to a stop in the middle of the street.

"Don't cross the line, Isabella," he warned, his voice a low, guttural command. "I have a wife."

For a foolish, stupid second, a sliver of hope lodged itself in my throat. He had said it. He had drawn a line.

Then, Isabella started to cry. Soft, broken sobs designed to melt his resolve. They always did.

He let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Fine. Where are you?"

He turned to me, his expression a war of apology and command. His jaw was tight, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes held a flicker of regret before it was extinguished by the coldness of his order. "We're going to pick up Isabella."

The hope inside me shattered like glass. He wasn't choosing me. He was just forcing me to watch him choose her. I nodded, the motion stiff and robotic. What else could I do?

We pulled up to a private, members-only club where Isabella was waiting on the curb. The moment Dante stepped out of the car, she threw herself at him, clinging to his arm like a drowning woman.

"Dante, I knew you'd come for me," she whispered, the words pitched just loud enough to slice through the air and find me in the car.

He tried to push her away. "Isabella, stop."

She just clung tighter, burying her face in his chest. "I can't. I missed you so much."

He sighed again, a sound of pure resignation, and his arms came up to wrap around her. "I know," he said, his voice soft. "When have I ever been able to say no to you?"

From inside the car, I watched the scene unfold, a cold, heavy weight settling in the pit of my stomach. This was my marriage. A spectator sport.

A sharp rap on my window made me jump. It was Dante. His face was a cold, impersonal mask, wiped clean of any emotion.

"Move over," he ordered, his tone matter-of-fact. "You're driving. Take care of her."

My voice was barely a whisper. "Are you asking me to be your chauffeur?"

His glare was my only answer. He opened the back door for Isabella, then walked around to the passenger side. His command echoed in the silent car.

"Drive."

Under the scornful, pitying eyes of his soldiers parked across the street, I slid over to the driver's seat. The leather was still warm from his body. Humiliation burned in my cheeks.

In the back, Isabella draped herself over Dante's lap.

"Isabella," he warned, his voice tight.

She pouted, pulling back slightly. "Fine. But you have to help me look at new houses tomorrow. My old place has too many bad memories."

I saw his eyes flick to mine in the rearview mirror. It was a glance of apology, of guilt, but it meant nothing. It never did.

"Alright," he agreed, and the tenderness in his voice was a physical blow. It was a tone he had never once used with me.

When we arrived at the sprawling Ricci estate, Isabella's parents rushed out to greet the car. They beamed at Dante, pulling him into warm hugs as their eyes passed right over me, as if I were nothing more than part of the car's upholstery.

"Dante, son! We were so worried," Mrs. Ricci gushed.

Isabella playfully slapped her father's arm. "Daddy, you love Dante more than you love me."

And then I saw it. A smile. A real, genuine smile that reached Dante's eyes, something I had never seen in the seven years we had been married. He followed Isabella inside, disappearing into the warm glow of her family home.

I was forgotten in the car, the engine still running.

Minutes later, my phone buzzed. A text from Dante.

"Go home without me."