From Unwanted Wife To Unreachable Queen

The day my guardian, Dante Moretti, announced his engagement was the day I started planning my death. Not a literal one, but the death of the girl who had orbited his world for ten years.

He was the Don of the Moretti family, the man I'd secretly loved since I was a child. But with his new fiancée, Sofia, on his arm, he began to erase me. He even forgot my severe allergy, gifting me a watch that would blister my skin.

He had ripped apart the diary where I confessed my love for him.

"I am your guardian," he'd spat. "Do not ever cross that line again."

Yet one night, drunk and stumbling, he crashed his mouth onto mine, his hands roaming my body as he pushed me against the wall.

He groaned, but the name that escaped his lips wasn't mine.

"Sofia..."

When I screamed my own name-Elara-he shoved me away in horror. He wasn't horrified by his betrayal, but by the fact that he'd kissed the wrong woman.

That was the final straw. I took the acceptance letter to a university in Toronto that I had kept hidden like a prayer. I called my estranged father and booked a one-way ticket. This time, I would burn my old life to the ground and leave nothing but ashes behind.

Chapter 1

Elara POV:

The day Dante Moretti announced his engagement was the day I started planning my death.

Not a literal one, of course. This was the death of Elara Vane, the girl who had orbited his world for ten years.

He was the Don of the Moretti family, my guardian, the man I'd loved since I was a child-and if I didn't run, his new fiancée wouldn't be the only woman he destroyed.

My finger trembled over the mouse, the cursor a blinking executioner above the folder named 'Dante'.

A click. Another. Then, 'Delete'.

A pop-up materialized: Are you sure?

I was.

I watched the progress bar fill, erasing every photo, every file, every digital ghost of the last decade.

The picture of the dragon-shaped night light he'd bought me when I was ten vanished. He'd found me crying in the dark, terrified of the monsters under my bed. He'd plugged it in, and the soft, golden glow had chased the shadows away. He'd been my protector then.

Now, he was the monster.

A hollow ache opened in my chest, a familiar emptiness I'd lived with for a year. I had to get out. Out of the Moretti manor, out of New York, out of his sphere of influence where the very air I breathed felt like it belonged to him.

My phone felt heavy in my hand. I scrolled to a number I hadn't called in years.

Julian Vane. My father.

It rang twice before he picked up.

"Elara?" His voice was hesitant, laced with a surprise that stung.

"Dad," I said, my own voice tight. "I need your help."

"Anything. What is it? Is everything alright?"

I took a breath, the lie forming easily on my tongue. "I've been accepted into the University of Toronto."

It wasn't a complete lie. The acceptance letter was real, a secret I'd kept clutched to my chest like a prayer. It was my only escape route.

"I want to go," I said, the words coming out stronger than I felt. "I want to leave New York."

There was a pause on the other end, then a wave of warmth I hadn't heard from him in a decade. "Of course. Elara, of course. I'll handle everything. Tuition, a place to live... anything you need. It's time. It's past time." He sounded choked up, his voice thick with the unshed tears of a decade's worth of guilt.

"Dante is engaged," I added, offering him a socially acceptable reason, a shield for my broken heart. "To Sofia Gallo. It's... it's not appropriate for me to stay here anymore. It's time for me to have my own life."

"That bastard," Julian muttered, the sound raw with a father's protective anger. "What has he done to you all these years?"

The pity in his voice was like gasoline on the fire of my resolve. I didn't need pity. I needed to burn the old me to the ground.

After the call, I walked into my bathroom and stared at the girl in the mirror.

Her long, dark hair cascaded to her waist, just the way Dante liked it. He'd once told me he loved the feel of it, a silken curtain he could hide behind.

I picked up the scissors from the counter.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Thick locks of hair fell into the sink, piling up like dead things. When I was done, it was short, choppy, brushing my chin.

I didn't recognize the person staring back at me.

Good.

I found a pack of cigarettes tucked away in a drawer, a relic from a rebellious phase I'd never had. My hands shook as I lit the first one, the smoke scratching my throat. I coughed, but I took another drag, holding it in until my lungs burned.

This was a ritual. An exorcism.

I was carving Dante Moretti out of my very soul, an exorcism that hurt more than I could have ever imagined.

With the acceptance letter clutched in my hand, I walked towards his office at the end of the hall. The door was slightly ajar.

I saw his back, a powerful silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the estate. He was on the phone, his body tense with the weight of being the Don.

My guardian. My brother, he used to say. A role I had so foolishly, so desperately, misread.

His phone rang-a different tone from his usual business calls. He answered it, and his entire posture softened.

"Sofia," he said, and the name was a caress. A sound so gentle, so full of warmth, I had never heard him use with anyone. Certainly not with me.

I froze, hidden by the doorway.

"Yes, the caterer confirmed," he was saying. "Just the way you like it... No, don't worry about a thing. It's our engagement party. All you have to do is show up and look beautiful."

The words were a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.

My mind flashed back to my seventeenth birthday. I'd spent weeks pouring my heart into a leather-bound diary, filling it with every secret hope, every whispered declaration of love for him. I'd given it to him, my hands trembling.

He'd read a single page before his expression shuttered, turning to granite. The fury in his eyes was a storm I'd never seen before. He'd ripped the diary in half, then again, the sound of tearing paper a perfect echo of my own heart breaking.

"What is this nonsense, Elara?" he'd spat, his voice laced with ice. "I am your guardian. The Don of this family. I took you in when your father abandoned you. Is this how you repay me? With this... childish infatuation?"

He'd thrown the shredded pages at my feet. "Do not ever confuse my protection with something else. Don't ever cross that line again."

The memory dissolved, leaving the sharp edges of the present in its place.

A few weeks ago, he had brought Sofia here, to the manor. He'd stood before me, his hand resting possessively on her waist.

"Elara, this is Sofia Gallo. My fiancée. You will call her sister."

Sister.

The word was a brand, marking the absolute end of any hope I'd harbored. The love I thought was growing between us was just his control, his ownership. I was his ward, his project, his pretty little bird in a gilded cage.

I stood outside his office, listening to him murmur sweet nothings to the woman who would be his wife.

The pain inside me had burned past inferno and cooled into something far more dangerous: resolve.

Fine.

I would be the one to burn it all down.

I looked down at the acceptance letter in my hand, my knuckles white. When I lifted my gaze, the heartbreak was gone. In its place was a chilling stillness, a reflection of the cold, hard decision that had finally taken root.

I would extinguish this flame myself, and I would leave nothing but ashes behind.

Elara POV:

I didn't knock. I didn't clear my throat. I just turned and walked away from his office, his soft voice, meant only for Sofia, a fading poison in the air.

Let him have his moment. Telling him I was leaving would grant him a power over my departure that he no longer deserved.

He wouldn't care where I was going anyway. That was the last piece of my pride I had left to cling to.

Back in my room, the silence was deafening. I had lived in this room for ten years, a pretty, pastel prison designed by Dante.

I glanced at the clock. I had set a timer in my head. Every tick was a countdown to freedom, and every second, an agony.

I walked to the bed and reached for the dragon-shaped night light on the bedside table. My fingers traced the cool ceramic scales, a relic from a time when his protection felt like love.

With a click, the golden light died, plunging the corner into darkness. I didn't need it anymore. I would learn to navigate the dark on my own.

I pulled a large suitcase from the closet and began to pack. Not clothes. Not essentials.

I moved through the room like a ghost, collecting every single thing he had ever given me. A silver locket; a first-edition copy of a book I'd mentioned once; a cashmere scarf. Each object felt like a lead weight in my trembling hands.

A vast, cavernous emptiness opened up inside me. It was a physical sensation, a hollowness in my gut that threatened to swallow me whole.

I forced myself to breathe, to push down the tidal wave of grief that was clawing at my throat. No tears. Not yet.

My fingers brushed against a thick, leather-bound book on my shelf. My diary. The one I'd started when I was eight, the year I came to live with him. It was filled with a child's adoration, a teenager's crush, and finally, a young woman's misguided love.

I opened it, the pages whispering secrets. Here was a drawing of him, a clumsy sketch from a ten-year-old's hand. Here was an entry about how he'd carried me home after I'd fallen and scraped my knee. He had been my world, my only anchor in the storm of my parents' disastrous divorce and my father's abandonment.

I flipped to a later page, my own handwriting replaced by his sharp, decisive script.

He'd found my diary once, years ago. Instead of being angry, he'd written on a blank page at the back. It was a plan. My plan.

"You will attend university in New York," it read. "After graduation, you will work for the Moretti Group. I will always protect you, Elara. You will always be under my wing."

His wing. His cage.

My fingers tightened on the page. The pain was a sharp, cold shard inside me. With a guttural sob that I choked back, I ripped the page out. Then another. And another.

I tore through the diary, shredding ten years of devotion, ten years of a lie. The sound was violent, satisfying. Each rip was a severing, a piece of him being torn from me.

I shoved the fistfuls of paper confetti into the suitcase and zipped it shut. It was done. The past was packed away, ready to be disposed of.

There was no going back.

Later that night, I heard his car in the driveway. I peered through the curtains to see him helping Sofia out of the passenger side.

They were laughing, his arm wrapped securely around her waist, his head bent toward hers. He didn't even glance up at my window.

He used to. He always used to.

They came inside, their voices echoing in the grand foyer. I forced myself to go downstairs, to face them one last time.

"Elara, darling," Sofia said, her smile bright and blinding. She held out a small, beautifully wrapped box. "A little something. A welcome-to-the-family gift."

I took it, my own smile feeling like a cheap mask. Inside, nestled on a velvet cushion, was a delicate, intricate watch made of gleaming silver-toned metal.

"It's beautiful," I said, my voice hollow.

Sofia beamed, turning to Dante. "I thought it was perfect for her."

Dante's eyes were on Sofia, full of an adoration that made my stomach clench. He didn't even look at the watch. He didn't look at me.

And in that moment, I knew.

He had forgotten.

He, who had once memorized every allergy, every fear, every tiny detail of my existence. He, who had personally vetted every piece of jewelry I'd ever worn, ensuring it was pure gold or platinum because any other metal left my skin red and blistered.

He had completely forgotten that I was allergic to metal.

The pain was a dull, blunt instrument, ramming into my chest. This wasn't just forgetfulness. This was erasure.

The special place I thought I held in his life, the one that made him pay attention to the little things, had vanished. It had been given to Sofia.

"Thank you," I said, forcing the smile to stay in place. "It's lovely."

The lie tasted like ash in my mouth, but it cemented my resolve. The protection I had mistaken for love was gone. It was well and truly gone.

Back in my room, I dropped the watch on my desk with a clatter. I didn't care if it broke.

I picked up my phone, my fingers moving with a cold, steady purpose.

I found his name. Dante.

The screen gave me options. Call. Message. Block. Delete.

I held my breath and pressed Delete Contact. A small, digital execution.

And with that single tap, the hope I'd clung to for a decade died.

Elara POV:

Sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford.

The sounds from Dante's bedroom next door-a soft murmur of voices, a low laugh from Sofia-were a constant, torturous reminder of my new reality.

I slipped out of my room and onto the balcony, the cold night air a welcome shock to my system. I lit my second-ever cigarette, the acrid smoke a punishment and a release. The tiny orange ember glowed in the dark, a solitary star in my private universe of pain.

The sun was just beginning to bleed purple and pink into the sky when I saw her. Sofia emerged from Dante's bedroom, wrapped in one of his silk robes, a radiant, satisfied smile on her face.

She looked like the cat that got the cream.

I, on the other hand, looked like something the cat had dragged in-hollow-eyed and exhausted.

"Oh, Elara, you're up early," she chirped, her happiness a sharp sting.

She leaned against the railing beside me, stretching luxuriously. "I was just asking Dante what he wants to do for his birthday party. He's impossible to pin down. Do you think he'd prefer the beach house or something more formal?"

A memory, sharp and unwelcome, pierced through my exhaustion. A rainy afternoon years ago, huddled under an umbrella with Dante.

"Our birthdays," he'd said, his voice a low rumble against my ear, "will always be celebrated at the beach house. Just the two of us."

Just the two of us.

The words echoed in the hollow space where my heart should have been.

Before I could answer Sofia, he was there. Dante, dressed in a sharp suit, his eyes only for his fiancée. He placed a kiss on her temple, his hand possessively on her waist. He didn't even acknowledge me.

"I need to leave," I mumbled, desperate to escape the suffocating display of affection.

"Stay," Dante's voice cut through the air, cold and commanding.

It wasn't a request. It was an order.

He finally looked at me, his gaze dismissive. "I need you to go to the consulate today. Get your visa for Canada sorted." His tone was laced with an irritation he didn't bother to hide.

"And Elara," he added, his voice dropping to a low warning, "don't cause any trouble for me while you're there."

The words landed like a slap. He wasn't sending me away for my own good; he was shipping me off like an inconvenient package. I was a problem to be managed.

He took Sofia's hand, and they walked away together, leaving me alone on the balcony, the cigarette smoke mingling with the morning mist. The carefully constructed dam I'd built around my emotions shattered. A single tear escaped, then another, blurring the perfect image of them disappearing into the house.

I remembered all the times he'd held an umbrella over my head, pulling me close to shield me from the rain. He was my shelter. Now, I was standing in a downpour of my own making, and he was the storm.

A sudden, reckless impulse seized me. I ran from the balcony, down the stairs, and out the front door, straight into the drizzling rain. I didn't care. I let the cold water soak my hair and clothes, a torrent washing over me.

It felt like a baptism. A cleansing.

I didn't need his umbrella. I didn't need his protection.

I would stand in my own rain.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, my fingers numb. It was a social media notification. Sofia had just posted a photo.

It was a picture of her and Dante at the beach house, a picture clearly taken some time ago. The ocean churned in the background under a stormy sky.

The caption read: "Happy early birthday to my Don. Can't wait to celebrate with you."

My Don.

A wave of numbness washed over me, a cold deeper than the rain. I navigated to Dante's profile, my fingers moving automatically. I found the post and typed a comment.

"Congratulations." I added a polite, smiling emoji.

It was the final nail in the coffin of my past. A declaration of surrender that felt, strangely, like a victory.

Then, just as quickly, I deleted it.

He wouldn't see it. He wouldn't care. And I didn't need him to.

Back inside, soaked and shivering, my eyes landed on the metal watch from Sofia, glinting on the desk. Without a second thought, I picked it up and dropped it into the trash can.

I knelt before the fireplace, the torn pages of my diary-salvaged from my suitcase-already clutched in my hand.

I struck a match. The flame flickered, small and defiant. I touched it to the edge of a paper scrap.

It caught fire, the words of my childhood love turning to black ash. I watched them burn, page by painful page, until nothing was left.

I stood and looked out the window at the rain. The storm outside was finally starting to quiet. And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, so was the storm within me.