Isabella stood at the bottom of the stairs in a simple white dress, the picture of fragile innocence.

She spotted me, and a brilliant smile spread across her face. "You must be Sophia. I'm Isabella. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

I didn't answer, just stared down at her.

Don Romano emerged from the living room. Seeing Isabella, a rare look of paternal affection crossed his features.

"Isabella, you must be tired from your journey. Have Sophia show you to your room."

"Thank you, Uncle Romano," Isabella replied sweetly.

"Take Sophia's room. It gets the best light, perfect for your recovery," Don Romano announced.

I turned to him. "My room?"

"From now on, it's Isabella's room. You can move to the third floor. There's an empty guest room up there."

A cold laugh escaped my lips. "No, thanks."

I went back upstairs and began to pack.

Thirty minutes later, I was dragging my suitcase down the stairs.

Don Romano saw my luggage and frowned. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm leaving," I said without looking back. "Since I'm no longer a Romano, there's no reason for me to stay here."

"Sophia!" he yelled after me. "Your wedding is in two weeks! Don't be ridiculous!"

"I know." I pulled the door open. "I'll be at the wedding to fulfill our agreement."

The door slammed shut behind me. I drove away from the Romano estate without a second glance.

My first stop was the most expensive hotel in Manhattan—The Plaza.

"I'd like your most expensive suite," I told the concierge.

"For how many nights?"

"Two weeks. "

When I paid, I used the supplementary credit card Don Romano had given me. It had a five-million-dollar limit that I had rarely touched.

Today, I was going to max it out.

Once in the suite, I immediately began my revenge spending.

I contacted Vera Wang's private couturier and ordered three bespoke wedding gowns, each worth a hundred thousand dollars.

Then I bought ten sets of high jewelry and two limited-edition Rolexes.

In a single day, I spent nearly four million dollars.

Soon enough, Don Romano's call came through.

"Sophia! Are you out of your mind? You spent four million in one day!"

"What's wrong?" I asked, lounging on the hotel's plush leather sofa. "I'm being shipped off to Boston. A girl has to make a good impression."

"You need to spend that much to make an impression?"

"Of course," I said, sipping my champagne. "I'm marrying the heir to the Sterling family. I can't look cheap, can I? Besides, the Sterlings are paying five hundred million for this alliance. A few million is pocket change."

"You..." Don Romano was sputtering with rage.

"Father—oh, wait, I should call you Mr. Romano now," I laughed. "You already disowned me, so it's not right for me to spend your money. How about this: as soon as the alliance funds arrive, I'll pay you back immediately."

I hung up and continued my shopping spree.

My plan was simple: drain the Romano family's liquid assets before the alliance money came through. Then, the five hundred million would go directly into my account. If Don Romano wanted it, he'd have to come begging.

Let's see if he'd still favor that mother and daughter then.

Just as I was about to make my final round of purchases, my phone buzzed.

It was a text from Vincent. "You haven't been to the compound in three days. Is something wrong?"

I stared at the message, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs.

But I quickly composed myself. Vincent just hated it when his orders were disobeyed. That's all this was.

I replied: "Family stuff. It'll be sorted out in a few days."

Vincent didn't write back.

The next morning, as I was heading out to continue my sartorial assault, the hotel concierge stopped me. "Miss Romano, I'm terribly sorry, but your account has been frozen. You cannot continue to charge to your room."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll need to settle your bill immediately, or..." He paused delicately. "We'll have to ask you to leave."

An hour later, I was standing on the sidewalk outside The Plaza with my luggage.

Penniless and homeless.

I couldn't bring myself to sell the luxury goods I'd bought. I needed them as my armor for Boston.

I thought about calling a friend, but then I realized I didn't have any. The people who flocked around me were only there for the Romano family's power and influence.

Now that I'd been cast out, who would bother with me?

As dusk fell, I dragged my suitcase aimlessly through the streets.

Finally, I found an empty bench in Central Park and sat down.

The night grew deep. The park was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic.

I hugged my knees, counting down the five days until the wedding. I couldn't live on the streets until then.

As I worried, a few drunk men staggered toward me.

"Hey, beautiful. All alone?" one of them slurred, reeking of cheap booze.

I stood up warily. "Stay away from me."

"Don't be like that," the man said, reaching for me. "C'mon, have a drink with us."

I stepped back, but the bench blocked my escape.

Just then, a low, menacing voice cut through the air.

"She's with me."

I turned. Vincent was stepping out of the shadows, his face a thunderous mask of fury.

The drunks took one look at his imposing presence and scrambled away.

Vincent strode toward me, his gaze taking in my suitcases, then the bench.

"Homeless, and you still won't come to me?"

Vincent drove me back to his mansion in Manhattan.

I sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the passing neon lights, a gaping void in my chest.

"We're here." Vincent parked the car and walked around to open my door.

Why was it always like this? He didn't love me, but he slept with me, and he was still so damn considerate.

A lump formed in my throat.

I got out of the car and followed him, dragging my suitcase behind me.

I knew this house all too well. Every corner held a memory of our bodies tangled together.

Vincent reached for my suitcase, about to take it to my usual bedroom.

"Don't," I said, heading straight for a guest room. "I'm only staying for twelve days. This is fine."

Vincent stopped in his tracks. "You can stay as long as you want."

I put my suitcase in the guest room and closed the door.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone. Twelve more days, and I would leave New York forever.

The next morning, I went downstairs. Vincent was already in the dining room. He saw me and gestured to the seat across from him.

I sat. A maid brought me milk and toast.

"Vincent," I began.

He looked up, his gaze calm behind his glasses.

"Did you know Isabella is Maria's daughter?"

"I found out yesterday," he said, his face unreadable, showing no hint of guilt.

I gave a bitter smile. "What is Isabella to you?"

Vincent put down his coffee cup. "A high school classmate. She took a bullet for me once, saved my life. She's been recovering in Europe ever since."

"Really? Just a classmate? A savior? Is it that simple?"

Vincent's brow furrowed slightly. "Sophia, I don't want you targeting her just because she has returned to the Romano family."

I laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. "Is that a warning?"

"It's a reminder," Vincent's tone was cold. "Isabella's health is fragile. She can't handle any trouble."

I nodded, saying nothing more.

Vincent was more direct in his defense of Isabella than I had ever imagined. What else was there to ask?

"I understand," I said, getting to my feet. "I'm going upstairs."

I stayed in the guest room all day. The maid brought lunch and dinner to my door. I didn't go down.

That night, I lay in bed, unable to sleep. Usually, Vincent would open the door around this time, push me down without a word, and grip my waist while calling me Principessa.

But tonight, the hallway was silent.

Of course. His first love was back. Why would he be thinking of me?

The next day was Saturday. Vincent didn't go to the compound.

At ten in the morning, he knocked on my door.

"Sophia, there's a party tonight. You're coming with me."

I opened the door. Vincent was already dressed in a sharp black suit.

"What party?"

"A gathering between the families."

Not wanting to be alone in this house full of our memories, I nodded.

At seven that evening, Vincent's car pulled up to a private club.

I followed him inside and found the place lavishly decorated with flowers and streamers.

It didn't look like any mafia gathering I'd ever been to.

Before I could ask, I heard a familiar voice.

"Vincent! You're finally here!"

Isabella, in a white evening gown, fluttered over like a butterfly. She saw me, and her expression faltered for a fraction of a second before she plastered on a sweet smile.

"Sophia's here too! That's wonderful!"

I glanced around and saw a large banner that read, "Welcome Home, Isabella."

It was a welcome party. For her.

Vincent had brought me to Isabella's welcome home party.

I turned to leave, but Isabella stopped me.

"Sophia, what's wrong? Are you not feeling well?" she asked, her voice dripping with concern. "I heard you moved out of your house. Is it because of me? I'm so sorry, I had no idea Uncle Romano would let me stay in your room."

Her voice was soft and gentle, but loud enough for everyone around us to hear. A few guests looked my way with questioning eyes.

"It's fine," I replied curtly. "It's just a room."

"But Uncle Romano said you even disowned him." Isabella's eyes welled with tears. "It's all my fault. If I hadn't come back..."

"Isabella," I cut her off. "The reason I disowned him has nothing to do with an outsider like you."

Isabella's tears began to fall. She looked pitifully at Vincent.

Vincent walked over, shot me a warning look, then said gently to Isabella, "Don't cry. Your eyes will get swollen."

He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her tears. Isabella's tears turned to a smile. She blinked her wet lashes and said, "You're so good to me, Vincent."

I stood to the side, watching this tender tableau unfold.

A sharp pain pierced my heart.

In ten days, I would be gone for good, and I knew I would never be on the receiving end of that kind of tenderness from him.

I turned and walked to the bar, grabbed a glass of champagne, and downed most of it in one go.

Once the party started, I realized just how attentive Vincent was to Isabella.

He pulled out her chair, fetched her drinks, and even adjusted the strap of her dress when it slipped, his hand brushing her shoulder with a familiar ease.

I had never received any of that.

In the two years I was with Vincent, he had never done those things for me. I thought it was just his personality—cool and reserved, above such trivial gestures of affection.

I was wrong.

He just wasn't willing to do them for me.

I nursed my champagne, listening to Isabella laugh and chat with other guests. She spoke of her recovery in Europe, of how much she missed New York. Every word was graceful and proper.

"Isabella is such a lovely girl," a woman next to me whispered to her friend. "The way Vincent looks after her, they're sure to end up together."

My hand tightened around the stem of my glass.

"Alright, everyone, let's play a game!" the host announced, livening up the room. "Truth or Choice!"

The big screen lit up as the host explained the rules. "Two pictures will appear on the screen. Everyone votes for their favorite, but Vincent, as our guest of honor, you'll make the final choice for everyone!"

The first set of photos was of two different red wines. Vincent chose the one on the left without hesitation.

"Because Isabella is sensitive to anything too strong," he explained.

The room erupted in good-natured teasing.

The second set was two bouquets: red roses and white lilies. Vincent chose the lilies.

"Isabella prefers a more subtle fragrance."

The third set was two vacation spots: the Maldives and Switzerland.

"Switzerland. Isabella needs fresh air for her recovery."

Every choice Vincent made was for Isabella.

I watched him on stage and thought about our two years together. He had never asked what I liked, never remembered my favorite food or where I dreamed of going.

"Last round!" the host said excitedly. "This one's a little special. It's photos of two beautiful women!"

Two pictures appeared on the screen.

On the left was Isabella. She was in a white dress, smiling faintly in a garden, looking as pure as an angel.

On the right was me. I was in a crimson evening gown from some forgotten party, my gaze fiery and defiant.

The room fell silent.

All eyes were on Vincent.

He stood on stage, staring at the screen, and for a few seconds, he said nothing.

Those few seconds stretched into an eternity.

I knew he would choose Isabella, but I still clung to a final, desperate sliver of hope that he would choose me.

Even if it was just for show. Even if it was out of pity.

"I choose..." Vincent's voice echoed through the microphone. "Isabella."

The crowd burst into loud applause and cheers.

I set my champagne glass down, turned, and rushed out of the room.

In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, taking deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm the storm inside me.

I shouldn't have expected anything. Not from the very beginning.

I composed myself and walked out, ready to return to the party.

The hallway was dimly lit. As I rounded a corner, a few drunk men blocked my path.

"Hey, beautiful. All alone?" one of them slurred, stumbling closer. "Have a drink with us."

"Get out of my way," I said, my voice dangerously low.

"Don't be so cold," another one jeered, reaching for me. "We just want to get to know you..."

I backed away and saw Vincent standing in the doorway of our private room.

He was talking to a guest. I shot him a desperate, pleading look.

Vincent saw me. His face darkened, and he started to walk over.

Just then, a cry of pain came from inside the room. "Ouch! My foot..."

Vincent immediately spun around. He saw Isabella clutching a chair, her face pale.

"What's wrong?" he asked, rushing to her side.

"I think I twisted my ankle..." Isabella said, her eyes welling with tears.

Vincent immediately knelt to examine her ankle, completely forgetting about me in the hallway.

Isabella whispered something to him. Without even looking back in my direction, Vincent replied, "Don't worry about it. She can handle herself."

In that moment, my heart didn't just break. It shattered.

I grabbed a wine bottle from a nearby service table and smashed it against the wall.

Shards of glass flew everywhere. The sound startled the drunk men.

I held up the broken bottle, the jagged glass pointed at them. "Get lost!"

Seeing the feral fury in my eyes, they scrambled away.

The glass had cut my palm. Blood dripped onto the floor.

I looked at the wound, feeling the sting. What was this little bit of pain compared to the agony in my soul?

After the party, I stood alone outside the club, waiting for a car.

Isabella came out, with Vincent carefully helping her walk.

"Sophia," Isabella said, hobbling over to me. "I'm so sorry about what happened earlier. I twisted my ankle so suddenly, Vincent couldn't get to you. But it looks like you handled it well."

She glanced at my injured hand, a flash of triumph in her eyes.

"I did," I said with a cold smile. "I've always been good at handling my own problems."

"That's good," Isabella smiled sweetly. "To be honest, I was a little worried when Vincent brought you tonight. After all, you two used to..."

"Used to what?"

"You don't actually think Vincent has special feelings for you, do you?" Isabella leaned in, her voice a low, venomous whisper. "Sophia, dear, Vincent just pities you. You're homeless now, so he took you in out of charity. That's all."

"Is that so?"

"Of course," Isabella's eyes were sharp and malicious. "You saw the game tonight. Vincent only has room in his heart for me. It's been that way since high school. That will never change."

Just then, a black sedan lost control and sped straight toward us.

In a split second, Vincent lunged forward and threw his arms around Isabella, shielding her with his body.

And me? I was struck hard by the out-of-control car and thrown violently to the ground.