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.

As the car hit me, my consciousness began to fade.

Pain shot through my entire body, but what hurt more was the absolute, crushing despair of being abandoned.

Flashes of memory flooded my mind.

The first time I saw Vincent, sitting behind his desk, the cold light glinting off his glasses. Me, deliberately provoking him, and him, completely unmoved.

The first time he pinned me down, calling me Principessa, his voice low and ragged. I had thought it was love.

Countless nights, lying in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart, thinking I had finally found my home.

The final image was frozen in my mind: Vincent, without a moment's hesitation, diving to protect Isabella.

And me, like some disposable bystander, left to face the danger all alone.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in a hospital bed.

The room was quiet, but I could hear Vincent on the phone just outside my curtain.

"Isabella, does it still hurt?" His voice was so gentle it felt alien to me.

"Much better, thank you, Vincent," Isabella's voice was frail. "If you hadn't grabbed me in time, I might have..."

"Don't think about that," Vincent soothed her. "The doctor said you were just shaken up, no external injuries."

"Vincent, if it happened again, you would still save me first, right?"

Vincent didn't hesitate. "Of course."

"But Sophia got hit..."

"She has no reason to be angry," Vincent's voice was calm, logical. "In an emergency, of course I'm going to save the more fragile person. She understands that."

I closed my eyes, feeling as if someone had just plunged a knife into my heart.

So, in Vincent's mind, I didn't even have the right to be angry.

Footsteps approached, and the curtain around my bed was pulled back.

Vincent stood there. Seeing that I was awake, his face held not a single trace of guilt. "You're awake?"

"Yeah," my voice was hoarse.

"The doctor said you have a mild concussion and some scrapes on your leg. Nothing serious," Vincent said. "I've arranged for the best medical team. I'll stay here to take care of you for the next few days."

"Thanks," I said, staring up at the ceiling. "I'll pay you back for the medical bills in ten days."

Vincent frowned. "What are you talking about? What's in ten days?"

"I said I'll pay you back," I turned to look at him, my gaze flat. "And for the cost of my stay at your place. I'll settle it all at once."

Vincent's expression was strained. "Sophia, you don't have to keep score with me."

"Why not?" my voice was devoid of emotion. "We were never anything to each other, were we?"

The room fell silent for a few long seconds.

Vincent seemed to want to say something, but in the end, he just said, "Get some rest."

For the next few days, Vincent did stay at the hospital to look after me.

He checked on me regularly, made sure the nurses gave me my medication on time, and even tested the temperature of my food before letting me eat it.

But I remained cold and distant.

I didn't cry, didn't throw tantrums, didn't demand his attention. I treated him like a kind stranger, polite but utterly detached.

This new version of me seemed to make Vincent uncomfortable.

On the third afternoon, Vincent sat in the chair by my bed, watching me listlessly flip through a magazine.

"Sophia," he began.

"Hmm?" I didn't look up.

"About that night..." Vincent paused. "I saved Isabella first, but it wasn't because I didn't want to save you."

He continued, "Isabella's body is weak. She couldn't have survived the impact. It was the only logical choice..."

I put down the magazine, cutting him off. "I know."

Vincent looked at me, a strange, unreadable emotion in his eyes. "You're really not angry?"

"Do you want me to be?"

Just then, a commotion erupted in the hallway.

"Hurry! Get her to the ER!"

"What happened?"

"Miss Isabella fell down the stairs! She's hurt badly!"

The color drained from Vincent's face.

He shot to his feet. "I have to go handle something," he said quickly.

He walked to the door, then glanced back at me. "I'll be back to check on you later."

I listened to his hurried footsteps fade down the hall and closed my eyes, a wave of profound exhaustion washing over me.

Isabella had once again succeeded in taking Vincent away from me.

And I no longer had the strength to fight for him.

In a week, he'd be free to be with her anyway.

I woke from a doze to a sharp, stinging pain in my arm.

Looking down, I saw my IV line had backed up with blood, a crimson line creeping steadily up the clear tube.

I pressed the call button.

A nurse bustled in and frowned at the IV. "Why is no one watching you? Where's your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend," I said calmly. "He had to leave for something important."

"How long ago?" the nurse asked, skillfully changing the needle.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was two in the morning. Vincent had left at seven in the evening. Seven hours ago.

"A long time ago."

The nurse shook her head with a sigh. "That's how it is with these rich guys. They put on a good show, but they're never around when it counts."

After she left, I couldn't get back to sleep.

When morning came, I decided to go for a walk.

Dragging my IV stand into the hallway, I overheard two nurses talking quietly.

"That girl in the VIP wing is so lucky. Her boyfriend booked the entire floor for her."

"I heard he even flew in specialists from overseas for 24/7 care."

"The heir to the Marcelli family is so good to her. He hasn't left her side since she was admitted."

I stopped.

The VIP wing was on the tenth floor. I was on the eighth, in a standard private room.

I pressed the elevator button and went up to the tenth floor.

The entire floor was indeed cordoned off. Only one room was lit.

I walked to the door and peered through the small window.

Vincent was sitting by the bed, patiently spoon-feeding Isabella porridge. She was propped up against a mountain of pillows, her face pale but content.

"Does it still hurt?" Vincent asked softly.

"Much better," Isabella said, opening her mouth for another spoonful. "With you here, I'm not afraid of anything."

Don Romano was sitting on the sofa, peeling an apple for her. As soon as she finished the porridge, he handed her a small slice.

"Eat slowly. Don't choke," the Don's voice was laced with an affection I hadn't heard in years.

"Uncle Romano, you're so good to me," Isabella smiled sweetly. "Just like a real father."

"You are my daughter now," Don Romano said, patting her hand. "This family is your home."

Vincent smiled gently and reached out to smooth Isabella's hair. "Is your head still spinning?"

"No, just a little tired."

"Then get some more sleep," Vincent said, closing the curtains and dimming the lights. "I'll be right here with you."

The tender, domestic scene was a knife twisting in my heart.

I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood, forcing myself not to cry out.

I turned away from the VIP wing and went back to my own room.

Don't cry, Sophia. You can't cry.

Four days before I was scheduled to fly to Boston for the wedding, I was discharged.

As I stepped out of the hospital, I saw Vincent leaning against his black car, waiting.

"Get in," he said.

"I'll get a cab."

"Get in." Vincent's tone left no room for argument.

I looked at his cold, hard expression and finally slid into the car.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"To clear your head," Vincent said, starting the car. "You've been cooped up in the hospital for too long."

Half an hour later, he pulled up in front of Sotheby's auction house in Midtown.

"An auction?" I looked at the poster by the entrance.

"There's an art auction today," Vincent said, getting out. "I thought you liked this sort of thing."

I was about to refuse, but when he handed me the auction catalog, my eyes caught a familiar item.

Lot 47: A Pearl Necklace.

My hands began to shake.

I knew that necklace. It was my mother's. It was the only thing I had left of her.

"What's wrong?" Vincent noticed my reaction.

"Nothing," I clutched the catalog tightly. "Let's go in."

In the restroom, I dialed my lawyer's number with trembling fingers.

"Sell everything I have. All of it. Now."

"Miss Sophia, you said you wanted to take those things to Boston..."

"I changed my mind," I said urgently. "How much can I get?"

"Around fifteen million dollars."

"That's enough." I hung up and took a deep breath.

I had to get my mother's necklace back.

We walked into the auction hall, and Vincent found us seats near the front.

Just as I was about to sit, a familiar voice called out.

"Vincent!"

Isabella walked over, wearing a pale pink dress. Her head was still wrapped in gauze, but she was as beautiful and fragile as ever.

She linked her arm through Vincent's.

"Sophia's here too," Isabella said, smiling sweetly at me. "I told Vincent I wanted to apologize to you in person today. I didn't think he'd actually bring you to the auction."

In that moment, everything became painfully clear.

Vincent didn't bring me here to cheer me up or clear my head.

He brought me because Isabella wanted to "apologize," and I was just a prop he brought along for the ride.

I looked at Isabella's triumphant smile, and the last bit of pain in my heart vanished, replaced by a cold, hard numbness.

I couldn't feel anything anymore.