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.