"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."