Chapter 2

The blade wounds and the cold finally take him down. Dante collapses in the rain.

His men drag him inside. A doctor comes.

I stand in the courtyard with the rain soaking through my clothes, watching shadows move behind the windows, listening to his mother cry. I don't feel anything.

Back in my room, I start packing.

Three years in this house. I'm amazed at how much I've accumulated. Jewelry. Dresses. Art he bought because I admired it once in passing. All of it worthless now. Every piece a reminder of a life I'm walking away from.

I'm folding Lily's things into a bag when I hear footsteps behind me.

Dante. Propped up between two of his men like a puppet with half its strings cut. He looks like death warmed over. Bandages peek out from under his shirt — already spotting red.

"Elena. This is all on me. I know that."

His voice is wrecked.

I don't turn around.

"I'll make sure everyone knows it was my decision. I'll tell people it was mutual — not a casting out. Your reputation won't take a hit."

He pauses. Swallows.

"You're still young. You've done nothing wrong. You'll meet someone who deserves you. And I'll make sure you have enough to start over — more than enough."

I stop packing. Turn around. Look at him.

He's standing there with guilt plastered all over his face. So earnest. Like he really, truly believes he's being a good man right now.

I almost laugh.

"Dante. Stop pretending this is about me."

He blinks.

I walk toward him. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat.

"You're not doing this for my sake. You're doing it so you can sleep at night. So you can marry Sera without the guilt eating you alive."

"You keep saying you can't lose her again. Fine. But what was I? What were these three years? What was any of it?"

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"Elena… I never wanted it to end like this. But I can't undo what happened to her. And I can't be two people."

I stare at him. At that beautiful face I used to love so much. At the careful, practiced sorrow he's wearing like a mask.

"So three years of marriage and a baby daughter — we're still worth less than your regret."

I hear my own voice — flat, dead — and barely recognize it.

Something breaks behind his eyes. But all he says is:

"I'm sorry."

I turn my back on him. Go back to packing.

But my mind won't stay in this room. It keeps pulling me backward.

Christmas Eve. Three and a half years ago.

A masquerade in midtown Manhattan. One of those obscene parties where the chandeliers cost more than most people's houses. Champagne I couldn't pronounce. Masks that cost a month of my father's salary.

I'd slipped away from the crowd , and found a little fortune teller's booth tucked in the corner. A card on the table. A riddle written below it in gold ink:

I'm born the moment you look, and I die the moment you touch.

I stared at it. Drew a blank. Was still frowning when a voice came from right beside me , a little amused.

"A reflection."

I turned. A man in a black mask. Dark suit, perfect fit. The kind of posture you can't fake. And behind the mask — eyes like honey in firelight.

He tilted his head. Half-smile.

"I believe the prize is a dance. Would you like to claim it?"

I couldn't speak. I just nodded. He held out his hand.

And that was it. Every rumor I'd ever heard about Dante Moretti — brilliant, impossibly elegant, untouchable — stopped being a rumor and became the man holding my hand on a dance floor.

The second time was a hotel uptown. Some charity event. A storm knocked the power out — guests stranded, hallways dark, everyone panicking.

He found me sitting alone in a corridor. Didn't say a word. Just handed me his room key, told me his driver would be waiting in the morning, and disappeared. I found out later he spent the night on a chair in the lobby.

Third time — outside a restaurant in SoHo. Two drunk sons of a rival family decided I looked like easy entertainment. They had me cornered against a wall when Dante appeared.

He didn't yell. Didn't threaten. Just stood there and looked at them. They left.

He walked me to my car. Didn't say a single word the entire way.

Then there was the garden party at the Moretti estate. I knew exactly what it was — his mother parading potential brides in front of him like a fashion show. I was there as a courtesy invite. Background decoration.

I sat in the corner of the garden, miserable, trying to figure out how to leave without being rude.

He found me.

"Hiding in the corner at my mother's party. Bold move."

Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the late afternoon light doing something impossible to his face. Maybe I was just tired of pretending.

"Because I know I don't belong here. And I know I'll never be good enough for someone like you."

He went still. Just… studied me. Like I'd said something he wasn't expecting.

Then he smiled. Slow. Quiet. The kind that makes you forget where you are.

"That's funny. I was just thinking the opposite."

He married me three months later. Against his mother's wishes. Against the consigliere's advice. Against every unwritten rule about who a Moretti heir is supposed to end up with.

Everyone in the city said Dante Moretti was a man of principle. That he married for love, not leverage.

I believed them. I believed him. I believed we'd grow old in that house.

Turns out I was just the intermission.