On the seventh day of my confinement to the guest room, I woke before sunrise to the clamor of furniture being moved outside my door.

I opened the door to a chaotic hallway, where several men were carrying an antique vanity table downstairs.

That vanity had been a gift from Dante for my eighteenth birthday.

Back then, he had smiled and said, "My little principessa deserves only the best."

Just as I was about to step forward, I saw Isabella standing at the door of my room, holding a white poodle and directing the maids to move the white baby crib.

I had personally designed that crib when I was pregnant with my first child; I had spent three whole months painting the murals on it.

Every brushstroke on the bumper pads, every little angel, was filled with my hopes for them.

At the time, I had imagined our baby lying in it, listening to Dante tell them stories.

"Don't touch that!" I lunged forward, only to be seized by two bodyguards.

They were incredibly strong; I thrashed, but their grip was iron.

Isabella turned around, deliberately holding the dog higher for me to see.

A smug smile stretched across her face, her voice cloying. "Elara, why so angry? Dante said this room will be mine from now on, so your things naturally have to be cleared out."

She bent down and carefully placed the poodle into the crib.

The little dog pawed at the paintings, destroying all the little angels I had so painstakingly created.

"Oh, right," she said, as if suddenly remembering, and looked up at me with eyes full of malice.

"Dante also said we could get rid of this crib."

"It's a perfect dog bed for my puppy. That way, it won't go to waste. It can keep him warm."

I violently broke free from the bodyguards' grasp. "That's my child's crib! It was for my baby! How dare you…"

"We'll see if I dare, won't we?" Isabella sauntered over and deliberately slammed her shoulder into me.

I staggered back two steps, my lower back hitting the railing hard.

"Elara, you can't even keep a child. None of these things are yours anymore."

"Besides, so what if it was for your child? A doomed thing that died before it was even born. How can it compare to my future son?"

Her words were like shards of glass in my heart. Just as I was about to retort, I saw Dante approaching.

He was holding a velvet box, inside which was a pair of diamond cufflinks.

I had secretly saved up my allowance for half a year to buy him that birthday present.

I still remembered when he received it. He had smiled, stroked my hair, and said, "My little principessa is the most thoughtful."

But now, he didn't even glance at me. He walked straight to Isabella and handed her the velvet box. "Isabella," he said, his voice soft, "you mentioned you liked these cufflinks yesterday. I had them customized for you. Take a look. Do you like them?"

Isabella took the box, glanced inside, and immediately stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. "Dante, I love them! You're wonderful!"

"They'll be perfect as a charm for my puppy's collar!"

"As long as you like them." Dante reached out and gently stroked her hair, the affection in his eyes practically overflowing.

It was as if he had just remembered my existence. He turned his head to look at me, his gaze instantly turning cold. "Elara, the butler said you still haven't packed your things."

"I'll give you half an hour. If I see a single one of your things on this floor in half an hour, or if you dare cause trouble with Isabella again, I'll throw out all of this junk."

He called the things I had prepared for our child "junk."

I watched the tender way he touched her and suddenly laughed.

Without another word, I turned and retreated to the guest room.

The moment the door closed, I pulled a sharpened letter opener from under the mattress.

The blade caught the light, glinting with the same cold fury that burned in my eyes.

I’ve always lived by one rule: if I can't have it, no one can.

A few days later, Antonio, the butler who had taken care of me for years, came to me secretly.

He said he had found news of my birth mother.

He said she would be attending a charity gala tonight.

He even showed me a photo. "Miss, the necklace this lady is wearing is a perfect match for the one you have."

That necklace was the only thing I had left of her.

I had memorized its design for thirteen years, dreaming of finding my mother with it.

I had fragmented memories of the day she left me.

When I was seven, my father was brutally killed on the streets, hunted by the mafia for being a police informant.

The killers stormed our home, tearing it apart.

My mother, desperate to protect me, had placed me at the entrance of an orphanage while I was asleep and faced the killers alone.

Every day since, I had worried whether she was alive or dead.

On the night of the gala, I deliberately wore the necklace.

Standing on the second-floor terrace of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, my heart pounded, my eyes constantly scanning the crowd, afraid I'd miss her.

Just then, I saw a familiar silhouette standing by the edge of the terrace.

She was wearing a black evening gown, the pearl necklace at her collar shimmering under the lights, exactly as I remembered.

"Mom?" My voice trembled as my feet moved forward on their own.

My heart hammered with such excitement I didn't even notice someone approaching from behind.

Just as I was about to reach her, I felt a violent shove from behind.

I stumbled forward, crashing right into the woman I believed was my mother.

She screamed and fell backward, her body flipping over the terrace railing.

I scrambled to the edge, watching helplessly as her head hit the marble floor below with a sickening thud.

"Mom!" I screamed, my voice raw and caught in my throat.

I heard the dull crack as her body hit the ground. A moment later, her pearl necklace, broken in two, rolled to my feet.

Isabella's laughter rang out behind me.

"Elara, why so clumsy? Tripping over your own feet?"

"If word of this got out, people might think you did it on purpose."

I whipped around and saw a piece of torn fabric clutched in her hand.

She had torn it from the back of my gown when she pushed me.

She deliberately held the fabric scrap in front of my face and waved it. "My mistake. I guess I got a little too excited."

"You're not mad, are you? It wasn't on purpose, after all. You should have watched where you were going."

I had no time for her and rushed downstairs.

But by the time I got to my mother, she was no longer breathing.

A few doctors were crouching beside her, shaking their heads. "She's gone."

For a moment, the air left my lungs, and I collapsed beside her body.