It was the last day before the gala. One more day of pretending. One more day of smiling through emptiness.

I wrapped a scarf around my hair, pulled on my coat, and made my way to the main hall to double-check the placement cards. The estate was quiet at that hour, the soldiers on morning rotation still finishing coffee in the gatehouse, the hallway smelling faintly of floor polish and cold stone. That's when the door creaked open behind me.

Adriana. Her smile was different—too sharp, too polished, like glass reflecting light. No audience this time. No parents. No Dante. Just us. And when it was just us, Adriana's sweetness disappeared entirely.

She stepped inside as if the room belonged to her. "Up early, huh?" she said, voice dripping with mock cheer. "Still playing the perfect little worker bee? How admirable of you."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. I knew who she was when no one was watching.

It wasn't new. I remembered her breaking my favorite porcelain doll and screaming that I had pushed her into the cabinet. I got grounded; she got a new dress. I remembered sneaking cookies because of her and taking the blame when we were caught while she walked away praised for her honesty.

Even as we grew older, she whispered cruel truths disguised as jokes:

"Dante only married you for the alliance."

"You'll always be second-best, Bianca. Doesn't matter whose blood runs in your veins."

It never ended. No one ever believed me when I spoke up. I was always the liar. The ungrateful one. The burden.

Maybe leaving the couple who had raised me with care—the ones who kissed my bruises and tucked me in—was a mistake. But they were gone now.

I had hoped coming to my real family would mean belonging somewhere. I was wrong.

Adriana crossed her arms, leaning against the doorway. "I need you to do something," she said, crisp and commanding. "Don't go to the gala tomorrow."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," she said, stepping closer and pulling an envelope from her coat. "Ticket's in here. One-way. To a quiet place outside the city. A whole week. You like peace, don't you?"

She placed the envelope on my dresser like it was an offering. "You don't need to ruin the gala. Stay away from Dante while you're at it. You're not right for him, Bianca. Never were."

There it was. Her true voice. Cold. Entitled. Cruel.

The tip of her tongue touched the edge of her canine, just briefly, before she added softly: "I know what you saw. It doesn't matter. You're still married… for now. But it's only a matter of time."

I studied her, really studied her, and for the first time, I didn't flinch. I didn't bend.

"You don't need to worry," I said, calm and steady. "After tomorrow, you'll never have to see me again."

Her eyes flickered. "Good."

I walked out without another word.

That night, I sank into a long bath, lavender steam fogging the mirror, my mind, my thoughts. Exhaustion wasn't from the work or preparations—it was from pretending, from silencing myself. Somewhere below the window, I could hear the low murmur of the evening crew changing shifts at the compound gate, boots on gravel, a radio crackling once and going quiet.

When I stepped out, robe around me, hair towel-dried, the door slammed open.

My mother appeared, fury in every motion. She hurled something at me—a gown. Beaded, emerald green.

"What the hell is this?" she snapped. Then she tossed a delicate velvet box, which hit the floor and spilled its contents: a broken gold chain, emerald pendant shattered.

I stared. "Is… is this yours?"

She crossed her arms. "Adriana said she saw you near my room. Did you do this?"

"I… I didn't," I whispered, still frozen on the broken emerald.

"Liar," she hissed. "Adriana saw you. You've always envied what isn't yours. And now you destroy it?"

"I didn't—" My voice caught. "I swear, I didn't touch it."

That was all it took.

A sharp crack echoed through the room. My head jerked.

She had slapped me. Hard.

The sting spread across my cheek, ears ringing—not from the pain, but from her words.

"I should've left you with the peasants who raised you!" she shrieked. "You think you're one of us? You never will be. I regret claiming you as my daughter. Adriana is my only child."

I froze, her words settling like stone in my chest. The Benedetti name, the bloodline everyone in this world killed and married and bled to protect. And she had just told me I was outside of it. In this house, that wasn't rejection. It was exile.

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

I stood there, trembling, the box still in my hands, heartbeat thudding like a drum.

A soft knock came.

Adriana stepped inside. "Are you okay?" she asked, reaching for me.

I recoiled, instinctively, but she drew closer, her false warmth brushing against my arm.

"You know," she whispered, her voice coated in sisterly sweetness, "maybe she's right. No one really loves you. You're just… extra."

Her words cut deeper than any slap.

Something inside me broke.

I shoved her.

My hands shoved Adriana, and for a brief second, she teetered back, eyes wide with shock. I hadn't meant to push her that far—it wasn't even a strong shove—but true to form, she made it a performance.

"You little—!" she hissed, lunging at me, nails aiming for my hair.

Before I could react, she had grabbed a fistful, yanking my head violently to the side. Pain lanced across my scalp as I struggled, clutching her wrist, trying to free myself.

"Enough!" I shouted, shoving her back again.

She scratched me. Sharp, burning lines marked my cheek and neck. We stumbled backward, grappling like feral children.

"What the hell is happening here?" Dante's voice boomed as he stormed in.

Adriana melted into tears instantly. "She hit me! Look what she did!" she whimpered, holding up a faint red line on her arm.

"She attacked me first!" I shouted, pointing at my torn shirt, messy hair, and the small trickle of blood on my cheek.

Dante didn't hesitate.

"Bianca, what is wrong with you? Are you insane?"

"She started it!" I yelled, desperation in my voice. "She provoked me! She said—"

"Shut up," he snapped, the word cutting like a whip. "God, you're pathetic. Always the problem."

I froze as Adriana sniffled behind him, clutching her staged injuries. The tip of her tongue touched the edge of her canine, and through my blurred vision I caught the ghost of satisfaction cross her face before it crumpled back into tears.

Dante's eyes locked onto mine, colder than I had ever seen. "You're nothing compared to Adriana. Elegant, composed. And you? Just a bitter, messy shadow."

The room fell into a heavy silence. The kind that follows betrayal—weighty, permanent. He didn't even check on me. Somewhere beyond the study door a soldier shifted his weight, leather creaking, and then went still, the way men in this house always went still when the heir lost his temper.

I am his wife. And none of it mattered anymore.

That night, I cried myself to sleep. The scratch on my cheek throbbed, but the ache in my chest was far worse.

The next morning, Dante asked me to accompany him shopping for the gala. I agreed—for the last time.

At the boutique on Via Monte Napoleone, he draped a hand lightly on my lower back, as he always did in public, as if to show care. As if he hadn't spent the previous night in someone else's arms. The Russo driver waited at the curb with the engine running; the second soldier held the door. To anyone passing, we were a young couple from a respected Family, blessed and untouchable.

He browsed suits and luxury gifts while I followed behind, silent, detached. My phone buzzed. Gia.

"Who's that?" Dante asked suddenly, narrowing his eyes as he reached for my phone.

I pulled it back, holding it close. "Do you really need to read my private messages?" I asked, arching a brow.

His jaw tightened, but he stepped back. "Enough with the phone. We're heading home soon."

Once back at the estate, he excused himself, claiming a sit-down with one of the Capos.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, I moved quickly. Into the study. The room still smelled faintly of cigar smoke and old leather, the scent of men making decisions about other people's lives. I opened the hidden safe behind the bookshelf and retrieved the clinic report from my miscarriage—the one no one mourned with me.

I slid it into an envelope, added the signed dissolution papers, and finally, our wedding ring.

Sealing it carefully, I called a private courier to deliver it to Dante during the gala.

Then, I took one last walk through the estate. Wiping down every surface I touched. Deleting my fingerprint from the biometric lock. Leaving the keys neatly on the dining table. Every trace of me erased.

The house was enormous and quiet, the way houses owned by dangerous men always are—too many rooms, too few honest words ever spoken inside them. I passed the hallway where the Russo family crest hung in a gilded frame, the motto beneath it in Latin that Dante once translated for me on our wedding night, proud and a little drunk: Loyalty unto death.

I rubbed at the crescent of dried paint beneath my thumbnail and kept walking.

The charity gala glittered with gold and crystal, the kind of front-facing society event where every Family worth mentioning sent their best faces. Dante Russo was already inside the venue with Adriana, talking business with silent partners and protected backers beneath the chandeliers.

By the time the clock struck ten, Bianca hadn't shown. Dante started to feel uneasy. He asked a server if they'd seen her arrive. The answer was no. He asked a soldier posted at the door, a valet, the event coordinator. All shook their heads.

That was impossible. He called again. No answer. The ringing went straight to voicemail.

A sinking feeling hit the pit of his stomach. This wasn't like Bianca. She always responded. Was she still mad?

Then, just as he was about to call her again, Nereo Gallo approached him. The old steward's face was unreadable, but his eyes lowered for one measured beat before rising to meet Dante's directly. "Sir," he said, offering a long, rectangular box wrapped in ivory paper. "This was delivered just now. For you."

Dante raised an eyebrow and took it.

The paper came off slowly, his fingers twitching. Inside the box were two things. A folded stack of official documents. And her wedding ring.

He pulled out the papers, hands trembling now, and his eyes scanned the words—DISSOLUTION OF ALLIANCE MARRIAGE—signed, sealed, filed.

Dante stood frozen, the papers clutched tightly in his shaking hands. His mind reeled, as if every word on the page were written in a foreign language, as if the signature at the bottom didn't belong to his wife. But it did. Bianca's name. Her real, determined handwriting—final, and firm.

The wedding ring tumbled out of the box and landed with a hollow metallic clink on the marble floor. He blinked, as if waking from a dream.

"No…" he muttered to himself, fumbling for his phone. His hands trembled as he scrolled to her contact. The screen blurred for a second—either from the adrenaline or the emotions clawing up his throat.

He dialed. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer.

He tried again. Left a voicemail. Texted.

Dante: Bianca. What kind of stunt is this?

Dante: This isn't funny. Call me back now.

Dante: Where are you?

Still nothing.

Across the ballroom, Adriana noticed his rigid posture, the flicker of panic in his usually unreadable eyes. She walked over, a glass of champagne in one hand, her signature smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"What's going on?" she asked, voice silky. "You look like someone died."

Dante didn't answer, just shoved the open box toward her.

Adriana's gaze fell to the ring first, then the papers. Dissolution.

And just like that, a flutter of glee tickled her chest. She almost gasped. She had dreamed of this moment for months, years even, since Bianca had returned to claim what was "rightfully hers." Since Bianca came back and stole the man Adriana believed was meant for her. Her tongue touched the edge of her canine, then pulled away.

"She finally left," Adriana whispered, eyes wide with mock concern. "Oh, poor thing. Maybe she just needs some time."

Dante gritted his teeth. "She filed to dissolve the marriage, Adriana. She signed it."

Adriana tried to feign sympathy, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Come on, this isn't the first time she acted out, remember? What about that time she stormed off after she caught you with me in the study? She was always too emotional. Jealous for no reason. She'll come back."

"No," Dante said, voice low, eyes still glued to the documents. "This is different."

Adriana's jaw tensed, her smile slipping for a second. But she quickly recovered. "So what? Let her go, then. She doesn't love you. Not like I do." She leaned in, pressing her body slightly closer. "Maybe this is fate, Dante. Maybe we're finally free to be together."

Before he could react, a new voice cut through the air.

"What's going on here?"

It was Viola Benedetti. Regal in her evening gown, lips painted red, her eyes scanned the scene with a sharpness that never missed a thing. Her gaze landed on the papers in Dante's hands.

She stepped closer and snatched them. Her face paled.

"What the hell is this?" she barked. "A dissolution?"

Dante didn't speak. Couldn't.

Adriana stepped in smoothly. "I think it's a good thing, Mom. Let's be honest, they were never truly happy. Maybe they're better apart. Maybe Dante and I—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Viola snapped, cutting her off. The heel of her palm came down on the linen napkin folded over her clutch, smoothing it flat edge to edge, a gesture so controlled it could have pressed the rage right out of silk. "Our Family does not tolerate a broken alliance. It's disgraceful. Do you know what this will look like to the other Families? To the Feds watching us? To every silent partner with money in our fronts? I may have hated that child, but she is my real daughter."

Dante's voice finally emerged, hoarse and bitter. "She filed it. Not me."

"Well, fix it," Viola hissed. "Call her. Do whatever it takes. I don't care what you have to do. Settle it before anyone outside this room finds out."

But Adriana was already rolling her eyes. "Why are you all acting like she matters? Bianca's just a name on paper. She didn't grow up in this world. She's not one of us."

That was the last straw.

Dante turned sharply and shoved her aside, hard enough that she stumbled a step backward. The two soldiers standing near the corridor entrance looked away.

"Don't talk about her like that," he growled.

Adriana blinked, stunned. "Dante, what are you saying? Isn't this what we both wanted? You told me that you wanted the marriage dissolved and now she's handing—wait!"

But he didn't respond. He was already walking away.

Every step was heavy. Every breath was ragged.

In his mind, her face appeared again. Bianca. Her voice. Her smile. The way she looked at him before all this—before he broke her beyond repair.

He thought she would always be there.

That she would forgive him, like she always did.

That she was too poor, too weak, too dependent to ever leave.

But now—now she was gone.

And all that remained was a ring and a signature.

She didn't even say goodbye.

As he stepped out into the cold night, Dante didn't care about the gala anymore. He didn't care about the Russo name. About Adriana. About the silent partners or the alliance.

No. There was only one thought racing through his mind like wildfire.

"I'm bringing her back. She doesn't get to leave me. Not like this."