Chapter 2

I thought the moment he signed his name, I would feel relief. But life never follows the script.

I locked the divorce agreement in the deepest corner of my locker at the station.

Seventy-two hours until I could file it with the court.

Those three days became a strange kind of suspended sentence… and Camilla Ricci, the family's "houseguest," became the shadow-close jailer.

"Morning, Elena." I'd barely stepped into the newsroom Tuesday when I heard her overly bright voice. She was leaning against the partition of my cubicle, holding a limited-edition mug stamped with the Marchetti Holdings logo.

"That mug…" I couldn't help it.

"Oh, this?" She smiled without a trace of guilt. "I found it in Dan's study yesterday. He said no one was using it, so I borrowed it for tea. You don't mind, do you?"

What could I say? That it belonged to my husband, that it belonged to my home, and she couldn't just take it? My pride wouldn't let me stake out territory like some resentful housewife.

"Go ahead." I sat down and opened my laptop.

"By the way—" She showed no sign of leaving. "Dan said the pre-coverage for Marchetti Holdings' quarterly investor summit can go to our network as an exclusive. He specifically asked for me to lead it. What do you think—traditional studio interview, or something more original, like an on-site feature at headquarters?"

My fingers froze on the keyboard. Pre-coverage for the Marchetti Holdings investor summit was top-tier material—usually the chief business editor handled it personally. Even senior anchors didn't touch it every time.

"Dante 'specifically' asked for you?" My voice came out dry.

"Mm-hmm." She took a sip of tea, eyes crinkling. "He said my angle was 'insightful.' Oh, and the Halston Capital feature airs tonight at eight. Don't forget to watch."

She finally left, trailing a faint scent of cedar—the same brand as the diffuser in Dante's study.

Nora leaned over from the next cubicle and lowered her voice. "My God. Is she reading you an inventory of her trophies?"

"Pretty much." I stared at my screen. The words on the document blurred into a smear.

"You have to talk to Dante." Nora's tone was flat.

"About what?" I twitched a corner of my mouth. "'Hey, man who is technically still my husband—could you stop handing your family influence and business capital like candy to your first love while simultaneously trampling on my career?'"

"Beats bottling it up."

I shook my head. I'd tried too many times—about respect, about boundaries, about my work, about the career he always deemed "not weighty enough."

His answer never changed: "Elena, don't be dramatic. Camilla just got back. She needs to build a reputation in this industry. You still have time."

Was my time really cheaper than hers?

That weekend, the station held a small celebration for the Halston Capital exclusive. Camilla was the star of the evening, surrounded by admirers on every side.

"So, you and Mr. Marchetti really were college sweethearts?" a new entertainment reporter asked, wide-eyed.

Camilla's cheeks colored faintly, her gaze drifting toward me where I stood alone with a drink. "That was all in the past. Young love is beautiful… but fragile."

She paused, her voice carrying just the right measure of wistfulness. "We were too proud back then. We thought the future was endless."

A hush fell over the room for a beat.

Then a low, familiar voice came from the doorway:

"That was a long time ago."

Dante Marchetti walked in, in an impeccably tailored black suit.

His eyes cut across the crowd with precision—falling first on Camilla, then, as if with belated hesitation, turning to me.

Low murmurs rose up. "Wow… it's Don Marchetti! So, Mr. Marchetti, you and Camilla really—"

Dante stopped beside Camilla, letting his hand rest on the back of her chair with easy familiarity. He didn't look at me. There was a softness at the corner of his mouth I had never seen before.

"Yes," he said. "She was the first person I ever truly loved."

Applause, whistles, and jeers erupted.

Camilla lowered her head shyly and gave his arm a light tap.

I stood frozen, my champagne glass cold as ice.

Nora's hand clamped down on my wrist, her nails almost breaking the skin.

Dante finally looked at me.

His expression was complicated—warning, apology, and something I couldn't read, something close to a plea.

Pleading for what? For me to play along? To stay silent?

I tilted my head back and drained the entire glass of champagne. The bubbles burned down my throat.

Then I set the glass down and, over all the noise, said clearly and calmly to Nora: "Let's go. The air in here isn't good."

I didn't look at him again, nor at the woman soaking in everyone's envy.

Outside, the Manhattan wind slapped against my face.

Nora was trembling with fury. "How could he? That bastard! Does he even know what he just said?"

I knew. And so did he.

He was drawing a line.

In public, in the rules he understood and could control, he had chosen his past, his old debts, his… Camilla.

And I was only the wife—the one "unsuited" for in-depth interviews, who needed to "change her approach," who needed to "work harder on her own," whose name wasn't even worth saying aloud.

Or rather: the one about to become an ex-wife.

Back at the apartment, I locked the bedroom door.

From the living room drifted the sound of Dante and Camilla arriving late and chatting, the bright clink of ice dropping into a bucket.

I opened my laptop, logged into the station's internal system, and pulled up the already-completed *High-Risk Region Foreign Assignment Application*.

The cursor hovered over *Submit*.

Outside the window, the city lights sparkled—countless cold, unreachable dreams.

I clicked.