"Isabella, please don't be angry. It's my fault you two are fighting," Alessia murmured, tears already shimmering at the corners of her eyes. "I'm just a guest here. I should go back to my room."

Dante's expression melted. He instantly pulled her into his arms, stroking her hair.

"Don't cry, Alessia. This is your home. You can do whatever you want. Don't pay any mind to anyone else."

I clenched my fists until my knuckles were bone-white, the acid churning in my stomach. Without another word, I retreated to my bedroom.

About half an hour later, the door opened.

Dante's arms wrapped around me from behind, his lips planting a soft kiss on my neck. His voice dropped to its usual gentle tone.

"Isabella, what's gotten into you today? Why are you picking fights with Alessia? You were never like this. Her health is fragile. Didn't we agree we would always put her first?"

"I'm not feeling well," I said. "Am I not allowed to be short-tempered?"

My cold tone made his body stiffen for a moment.

Then he was gone, returning a minute later with a steaming mug.

"Here, drink this. I'll go make dinner."

The click of the closing door sealed me off from the world he shared with her.

Through the wood, I could hear Alessia's coquettish complaints and Dante's patient, reassuring murmurs.

It wasn't until I felt a damp spot spreading on my shirt that I realized I was crying.

At the dinner table, Dante and Alessia sat on one side, a united front. I sat opposite them, an island of one.

I watched him skillfully shell shrimp for her, placing them on her plate, before casually spooning a few unpeeled scallops into my bowl.

"Isabella, Dante worked so hard on the seafood tonight," Alessia chirped. "These scallops are my absolute favorite. You should have some more."

At her praise, Dante gifted her a doting smile.

I didn't touch my chopsticks. Seeing this, Alessia scooped half the scallops from her own bowl into mine.

"Go on, eat," she prodded. "Or are you disgusted with me?"

Dante’s eyes fixed on me, his gaze a silent, unyielding command.

"Isabella, be good," he said softly. "It's a kind gesture from Alessia. You'll hurt her feelings if you don't eat."

I looked up and caught the flash of triumph in Alessia's eyes. I opened my mouth to refuse.

But she was faster. As if on cue, she took her spoon, scooped up a mouthful of scallops, and pushed them into my mouth.

"Hurry, try them, Isabella! Aren't they delicious? This is my apology for earlier. If you don't eat them, does that mean you can't forgive me?"

I struggled to swallow. Before dinner was even over, a familiar itch started spreading across my neck.

I was wearing a low-cut sweater, and an angry red rash was already blooming across my skin, impossible to hide.

Dante's gaze flickered to my neck, his mouth opening as if to speak.

Crash.

Alessia's wine glass shattered on the floor. A single drop of blood beaded on her fingertip where a shard had grazed it.

Anxiety contorting his features, Dante rushed to get the first-aid kit. He fussed over her, cleaning the tiny cut with painstaking care before lifting her into his arms and carrying her back to her room. He never once looked at me.

Staring at the closed door, I numbly returned to my room. I injected myself with the allergy shot, went through the motions of my nightly routine, and climbed into bed as the last seven years of our marriage replayed in my mind, each memory a fresh betrayal.

At one in the morning, the bedroom door opened.

His duties to Alessia apparently fulfilled, Dante finally came to bed and pulled me into his arms.

I could smell the cloying gardenia perfume on him—Alessia's favorite. Silently, I slipped the wedding ring from my finger, the one I had worn for seven years.

When I woke, only Alessia and I were in the house.

She was already waiting in the living room when I emerged.

"Isabella," she began, a smug little smile on her face. "You saw Dante kissing me yesterday, didn't you?"

I ignored her, moving to the door to put on my shoes. She wasn't finished.

"There's no point in pretending. You've had Dante for seven years. It's time he returned to his rightful owner. Don't play the part of the wife for so long you forget your real place."

The door clicked shut behind me. I glanced down at the bloody crescent marks my nails had carved into my palm and hurried out of the building.

Ever since Alessia had dropped all pretense, I had stopped trying to force my way into their twisted love affair.

My new, colder attitude must have unnerved Dante. For the first time in ages, he sought me out, holding me close and whispering sweet nothings. "Isabella, let's go on a date tomorrow. Just the two of us, no one to bother us. It's been too long."

"Alright," I said. "But not in Chicago. I want to go to Lake Como."

Lake Como. Where we first met. Where I fell in love with him.

"Isn't that a bit far? If we go, who will take care of Alessia?"

I said nothing, just met his gaze. He stared back for a long moment before his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Isabella, don't be angry. You've been so cold to me lately. You haven't fallen out of love with me, have you? Fine. If you want to go to Lake Como, we'll go."

It was the first time in seven years he had chosen me over her. A bitter smile touched my lips.

"Then go tell Alessia. We leave tomorrow morning."

Dante nodded and left the room. He didn't return for three hours.

When he finally came back, I was still packing.

Seeing my blank expression, he deliberately crouched in front of me, craning his neck to catch my eye.

I wrinkled my nose. "You smell of something."

A flicker of guilt crossed his face.

I let the silence hang for a moment before speaking. "Did you pick up the smell of cigars at the club? Why don't you go take a shower?"

The relief that washed over his face was instantaneous. I managed a playful pout.

"Isabella, you're so critical of me now. You never used to be like this. After I shower, can we please pack together?"

The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, I grabbed my perfume and sprayed it frantically around the room, a futile attempt to mask that sickeningly sweet scent clinging to him.

When we arrived at Lake Como, Dante wheeled the suitcase with one hand, his other arm wrapped securely around my shoulder.

To any onlooker, he was the perfect, considerate husband. We were the perfect, loving couple.

Only I knew that he had checked his phone a dozen times since we stepped off the private jet.

"Is work that busy, Dante?" I asked lightly. "You're always on your phone. Is it important?"

His fingers stilled over the screen. He smiled. "My love, I'm just getting everything settled so I can focus completely on you for the next few days. You're not jealous of my associates, are you?"

I just shook my head.

He did use his phone less after that, but a line of worry remained etched between his brows.

It didn't disappear until that evening, when he shut himself out on the villa's balcony for a phone call that lasted nearly two hours.