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."