The day before my arranged marriage, I was abducted.

In a meticulously planned ambush, men from a rival family shattered both of my hands.

I was stripped naked and dumped on their territory.

The news of my humiliation spread like a virus throughout the five families of New York City.

Branded a disgrace by my own family, I was placed under house arrest in our countryside estate.

My shattered hands were beyond repair, and with them, my ability to paint.

I was supposed to be a rising star in the art world. Now, I was destined to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair.

The doctors confirmed I could never have children of my own.

With my "value" gone in the eyes of the world, the Falcone family promptly called off my engagement to their heir, Marco Falcone.

They called me a tainted woman. Then, they had Marco marry my cousin, Isabella Moretti.

I thought my family would take pity on me, but my own father called me a stain on the family name.

He wanted to disown me. That was when Marco’s brother, Dante Falcone, proposed to me.

"You used to only have eyes for Marco. Now that he's married someone else, will you give me a chance to protect you?"

His tone was firm, but it was the raw pain in his eyes that stirred something in me.

I agreed to marry him. After our wedding, Dante gave me the shelter and "care" I so desperately needed.

He forbade anyone from ever speaking of my humiliation.

A year later, my body had healed more than anyone expected. I returned home, wanting to prepare a wedding anniversary surprise for him.

That was when I overheard his conversation with my brother, Luca, in the wine cellar.

"Dante, I'm the one who helped you lure Seraphina out. I helped set up that ambush. This is on us. You can't abandon her now."

"Everything I did was for Isabella. As for Seraphina… she'll live out her days as my property, perfectly behaved."

————————

1

"Dante, we got Seraphina's latest medical report."

"Even the best doctors in Europe can't fix her. She'll never hold a paintbrush again. Her hands are ruined, her body's a wreck. Jesus, Dante, don't you think we went too far?"

"Without this, how would Isabella ever have gotten the marriage contract? Seraphina only lost her hands. Isabella would have lost *everything*—the man she loves, her future! She's pregnant now, Dante. Happier than ever. I don't regret a damn thing."

"I would do anything for Isabella."

The voices of Dante Falcone and Luca Moretti echoed from the wine cellar's depths. My mind went blank. One was the husband I had learned to trust; the other was my own flesh and blood.

I had thought they were my saviors. Instead, they were the ones who had thrown me into this endless abyss.

It all clicked into place. After I was found and brought back, the family doctors attended to me while those two stood guard outside, claiming they didn't want me to experience "secondary trauma."

They even "advised" me to drop the investigation for the sake of my "reputation," insisting it was for the best. I thought they were protecting me. I never realized they were just covering their tracks.

Unable to face the truth, I wheeled myself out into the pouring rain. My wheelchair skidded in the mud, careening straight into the estate's iron gates.

I hit my head, bled profusely, and battled a fever for three days before being sent to the family's private hospital. My body had been frail ever since.

Dante rushed to my side the moment he heard I was hospitalized.

"Seraphina, this is all my fault. I should have taken better care of you. I brought your favorite seafood chowder. Let me feed you, okay?" he murmured, his voice laced with concern.

If I hadn't heard the truth, I, like everyone else, would have been fooled by his loving, devoted husband act. For the first time, however, I looked away, recoiling from his touch.

"Dante, do you regret marrying a defiled, useless cripple like me?" I asked, my voice flat.

Shock flashed across his face. "Don't you ever say that about yourself. In my eyes, you're as pure and beautiful as the day I met you. How could I ever regret making you my wife?"

I dropped my gaze, letting my hair fall like a curtain to hide the cold emptiness in my eyes. A bitter smile twisted my lips.

So this was his love. To destroy me, to leave me so broken and humiliated that I would have no one else to turn to, forever a piece in his twisted collection. No. This wasn't love. He was a monster. A madman.

The one Dante Falcone loved was Isabella Moretti—my cousin, the girl who grew up in my home while plotting against me at every turn.

"If you truly love me, would you dare to touch me?" I asked, lifting my chin to meet his gaze.

Dante looked back at me with that same rehearsed tenderness.

"Of course, I would," he said quickly. "I just don't want to risk hurting you. Your hands… they're still healing. It would kill me to cause you more pain."

He reached for my hand. I jerked it away, refusing his touch. We had been married for a year, and he had never once laid a hand on me.

Every single time, he used the same excuse. And I, like an idiot, had believed him.

After my recovery, Dante announced he was taking me to the Falcone estate for the family's monthly dinner.

I was mentally and physically drained and just wanted to rest, so I refused. But he was insistent, his mask of "concern" slipping away.

Dante was always the most enthusiastic about these dinners. This time, his insistence made me realize with sickening clarity who he was so desperate to see—Isabella.

After taking my place as Marco’s wife, Isabella's star had risen among the five families.

She was constantly socializing, only returning to the Falcone estate for these monthly gatherings.

"Is that cripple from the Moretti family coming too? I lose my appetite just looking at her."

"Mamma didn't invite her. When is that good-for-nothing who can't even produce an heir going to die?"

"I still don't get why Dante had to marry that tainted trash. Is he trying to collect strays and embarrass the Falcone name?"

Their taunts hit me as we approached the entrance of the Falcone estate, sharp as glass, dragging me back to that night a year ago. The night I was pinned to a cold floor as my hands were smashed.

The memory of my own screams echoed in my ears, a nightmare I could never escape.

A flicker of regret crossed Dante’s face, but he kept pushing my wheelchair forward, insisting we go inside.

"I'm sorry, Seraphina. I didn't expect them to say that. I'll make them shut up," he consoled me.

I didn't respond. In the past, whenever he said things like that, I would always stop him, trying to be the peacemaker for the sake of family harmony.

But now, I understood. He only said it because he knew I would stop him. He had orchestrated my ruin, yet he still allowed his family to tear me down, piece by piece. This was his version of love.

I called his bluff. "Go ahead. Put them in their place for me."

"What?" Dante froze, his surprise blatant. He’d been counting on me to stop him, as I always did.

I scoffed and wheeled myself past him, throwing open the doors to the dining room.

I wasn't going to let this go. Not this time.

"Thank you all for your concern, but I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you—I won't be dying anytime soon," I announced to the silent room.

They all knew I had heard them.

My mother-in-law, Carmela Falcone, was the first to break the silence. "Who allowed you to come here?"

"I haven't even accepted you into this family, and you show up uninvited. Do all you Morettis have no manners?"

"You're nothing like Isabella, even though you grew up under the same roof! Since you know how we feel, let's be blunt. If you have any sense, you'll annul your marriage to Dante. Don't drag him down with you."

After what felt like an eternity, Dante finally appeared behind me. "Mamma, that's enough. No matter what, Seraphina is still my..."

He trailed off, the word "wife" dying on his lips as his gaze found Isabella.

Isabella quickly interjected, playing the part of the mediator. "That's right, Mamma. You shouldn't say that."

"Seraphina is Dante's wife, after all. None of us wanted things to end up this way."

Carmela snorted. "Who knows? If she had any decency, none of this would have happened. She's probably just trash deep down. Thank God Marco married you instead."

Everyone had heard the story of how I was found, half-naked, on rival territory.

Isabella brought up my past just to ensure no one forgot.

She had helped turn me into a disgrace so Carmela would see her as the perfect, pure alternative.

And I finally understood why Dante had insisted on bringing me to these dinners. He was parading my humiliation to make Isabella’s hollow "kindness" shine, cementing her place as the future matriarch.

During dinner, Dante doted on Isabella. He filled her plate, peeled shrimp for her, and murmured about the baby's needs.

He didn't spare me a single glance. I sat in my wheelchair at the far end of the table, an invisible fixture.

"If Seraphina's hands hadn't been ruined, she would probably be our family's most brilliant artist, not me," Isabella said, knowing exactly how to twist the knife.

I looked up and met her gaze. "Yes. And if it weren't for my 'accident,' you wouldn't be wearing Marco's ring in my place."

Isabella froze, stunned that I had the nerve to call her out.

Carmela huffed, jumping to Isabella's defense. "But the accident did happen, didn't it? That's fate. You have a sharp tongue. If you're done eating, get out. You're ruining everyone's appetite. You're disgusting."

I gripped the armrests of my wheelchair and looked at Dante. He couldn't stand me upsetting his precious Isabella. Instead of defending me, he had someone escort me upstairs to "rest."

He knew I hated staying at the Falcone estate. I pleaded with him to take me home, but he wanted more time with Isabella and forced me to stay the night.

Late that night, my old injuries flared up—a familiar, searing pain shooting through my ruined hands.

Usually, Dante would help me find painkillers and massage the joints to ease the agony.

But it was 11 p.m., and he hadn't returned to our room. I had no choice but to go find him. In this vast, hostile estate, he was the only person I could "rely" on.

As I passed Isabella's room, a sliver of light from the barely-ajar door caught my eye. And then I heard them—the low, intimate murmurs from within.

"Dante, it must be so hard on you, being tied to a cripple."