I'd already decided I didn't want the man himself. A seat in a car was nothing worth fighting over.

I let out a quiet laugh, said nothing, and slid into the back.

The whole drive, Serena Bellucci was like a bird that never tired of singing. She picked at pastries and little sweets from a gold-foil box, scooping bites onto a spoon she'd already used and lifting them to Dante's lips. She made no effort to hide the intimacy. He made no effort to refuse it. They talked about everything and nothing, her every teasing pout and playful word earning the same reward: a slow, indulgent curve at the corner of his mouth.

From start to finish, I didn't spare either of them so much as a glance.

I cracked the window instead and watched the October light drain out of the city. The wind that slipped through carried the first real chill of autumn, thin and clean, tasting faintly of the river that marked the eastern edge of Moretti territory.

When the car stopped and we had barely walked a few paces from the curb, Serena wrinkled her brow and whimpered that her heels were cutting into her feet.

Dante laughed at her for being delicate, but he didn't hesitate. He steered her into the nearest high-end boutique without a backward glance, the two bodyguards trailing them inside like shadows.

He crouched in front of her himself, pair after pair, checking the flex of each sole with careful fingers, adjusting the strap across her ankle. Every motion deliberate. Gentle.

I stood to the side and watched, and the memory surfaced before I could stop it.

Two weeks ago. A fever so high my thoughts swam and my skin felt like it had been held over an open flame. All I'd asked for was a glass of water. He hadn't even lifted his head. His refusal had been flat, cold, final.

So this was how wide the distance between one person and another could be.

The one held close to the heart was a princess, naturally.

Treatment was never equal. It never had been.

But once, I had been the one cupped in his palms like something precious.

Back then I'd tested him on purpose, told him that if he could bring me the red-bean cakes from the old bakery on the south side, I'd consider being with him. The south side was half a city away from my family's house, and that night a blizzard had buried the streets. Anyone could see it was an impossible demand.

He said nothing. He took his keys and walked out the door.

Five hours.

When he came back, he pulled a paper-wrapped box from inside his coat, still warm against his chest, and held it out to me. His eyes were completely serious.

Afterward, I asked myself a thousand times: if what he felt then was real, how could it change so fast?

Now I understood.

He hadn't changed.

I simply hadn't seen clearly before. Hadn't seen the restless nature beneath the devotion, hadn't seen what kind of man he truly was.

A man like that never stops for anyone.

I laughed softly under my breath, tucked the embossed invitation card tighter in my hand, and walked into the auction hall ahead of them.

The first lot was already under the hammer by the time Dante strolled in with Serena on his arm. Two of his men peeled off to stand along the far wall, jackets buttoned, hands visible but close to the hip.

The auction ran alongside a formal dinner. The tables gleamed with tiered trays of delicate pastries and platters of fat, seasonal crab still glistening from the steam.

The moment Serena sat down, her eyes locked on the crab. She leaned into Dante, tugging at his sleeve, saying she wanted it now.

He gave a helpless little smile, smoothed her skirt where it had bunched against the chair, waved away the server who stepped forward, and picked up the tools himself. He cracked each shell with practiced hands, easing the meat and the golden roe free piece by piece, patient as a man disarming something fragile.

When he was done, he set the plate in front of her.

Serena looked up at him, her eyes bright with worship and need.

I only watched in silence.

After the crab, she pointed idly at the stage, at a suite of emerald jewelry displayed under halogen light.

Dante didn't hesitate. His hand went up, paddle rising in a single clean motion.

"Paddle seventeen bids three hundred million."

The auctioneer's voice echoed across the vaulted ceiling. The room went still. Then came the wave of sharp indrawn breaths, rippling table to table.

No one dared counter. The gavel fell.

Soon the evening broke for intermission. Men and women began circulating with glasses in hand, drifting toward our table the way lesser families always drifted toward power, looking for a word, a nod, an opening.

They watched how Dante attended to Serena, how his hand rested at the small of her back, how he leaned to hear her whisper. They read the signals the way people in this world always did, and drew the obvious conclusion. One after another, they addressed her as "Mrs. Moretti," as "Signora," their voices warm with deference.

Dante's gaze lifted then. Slowly. His thumb dragged once across the face of his signet ring before his eyes found mine, cool and unhurried.

"You have the wrong woman," he said. His voice carried just far enough. "That one is my wife."

The air froze solid.

The smiles on their faces locked in place, and they scrambled to correct themselves, voices tripping over awkward apologies.

I said nothing. I did not acknowledge the glances thrown my way, some startled, some pitying.

They hadn't been wrong, really.

Soon enough, I wouldn't be Signora Moretti at all. With the way Dante lavished his attention on Serena Bellucci now, the ink on our dissolution papers would barely be dry before he brought her into the house for good.

Once the intermission ended, the lots shifted to antiques. I had no interest. I bid on a few of the most expensive pieces without looking twice, then rose from my seat and left.

I had just reached the elevator bank when a sugary voice drifted up behind me.

"Signora, do you have a moment to talk?"

I had barely stopped, hadn't even finished turning around, when I saw Serena raise her hand.

The next second.

A sharp crack.

A full, open-handed slap landed across my face.

For one instant my mind went completely blank. She had put everything she had behind it. Heat flared across my cheek in a bright, stinging wave, my ears rang, and the corridor tilted.

I pressed my hand to my face on instinct, nearly unable to react.

Then awareness flooded back, and the rage surged.

"Serena, what the hell are you doing!"

I raised my hand to strike back.

But before the blow could land, a hand caught mine.

Dante.

He seized my wrist, grip so tight my fingers went numb.

His tone carried open displeasure.

"Vera, Serena didn't do anything to you. Why would you hit her?"

I stared at him for one stunned beat, then wrenched my hand free, my voice shaking beyond my control.

"I hit her? Dante, ask anyone standing here who struck first!"

The words had barely left my mouth before Serena's eyes turned red, tears pooling fast, her entire expression crumpling into wounded innocence.

Her voice came out soft and trembling.

"Dante, you're the one who said I was too timid, that I should find a chance to toughen up. I thought about it for so long, and I decided that slapping the Don's wife in public would be the hardest thing I could do. Otherwise I'd never find the nerve."

Her voice grew smaller and more pitiful with every word.

"But the Signora just now was so fierce. She really frightened me…"

Tears fell one after another, like beads sliding off a broken string.

When she finished, Dante frowned.

"Toughening up doesn't mean putting your hands on someone."

Especially not on me.

But the reproach in his voice was so light it carried almost no weight at all.

Serena sniffled and cried harder.

"I'm sorry, I was stupid. You told me the Signora had a gentle temper. I thought even if I hit her, she wouldn't get angry. I didn't expect…"

She trailed off, voice hitching until it barely sounded human.

Dante's expression softened instantly.

The tenderness took over completely. He forgot any thought of blame, wiping her tears with his thumb, murmuring to her in a low voice.

"Alright, alright, no one's blaming you. Stop crying. Be good."

I stood there, watching, and felt my chest go cold in slow, spreading waves.

Rage and pain surged together. I couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Dante, I'm the one who was hit. What gives you the right to forgive her on my behalf? And Serena, what innocent act are you putting on? Who in the world decides to slap someone as a way to build courage!"

My voice climbed despite every effort to keep it level.

Serena flinched at my tone, crying so hard she could barely breathe, looking as if she might faint on the spot.

Dante's sympathy was total now.

He looked at me, and something harder settled behind his eyes. Impatience. His voice came out careless, dismissive.

"She's a girl. One slap. How much strength could she possibly have? Do you really need to make this much of it? She already feels so guilty she's about to cry herself unconscious. Vera, enough."

He said nothing else. He swept Serena Bellucci up in his arms and turned his back on me, carrying her out of the room without a second glance.

I stood where I was. My whole body felt frozen.

In that moment, I truly could not believe those words had come out of his mouth.

The cold crept up from somewhere deep inside my chest, spreading outward as though I had fallen into a pit of ice.

How I made it back to the estate, I couldn't say. The drive was a blur. The whole way, I held everything in, jaw clenched, refusing to let a single tear fall.

By the time I walked through the doors, my eyes were swollen red beyond hiding.

Marta saw the mark on my face and went pale. She rushed over, the kitchen staff trailing behind her, all of them talking over one another. Who did this? Was it an outsider? They wanted to call Dante, bring him home, make him answer for it.

"Don't."

I stopped them quietly.

Every wound I carried, he had put there himself.

I sat by the window in the upstairs room, pressing a cloth of crushed ice to my cheek for a full hour before the swelling finally began to ease. Through the glass, the compound lights cut sharp lines across the courtyard. Two soldiers smoked by the gate, unaware of anything.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Serena Bellucci.

"Signora, did you make it home? I'm already at the hospital. Dante spoils me too much. I only fainted for a second and he reserved the entire VIP floor, brought in over a dozen specialists just to examine me."

"Oh, by the way, how's your face? I'm so sorry I didn't hold back. It must really hurt. Would you like to come to the hospital? I'll be generous and share one of my doctors with you. Wouldn't want you to end up scarred."

I read it once. Then I forwarded the message directly to Dante.

He didn't reply until after midnight.

"Serena meant well."

I stared at those three words, and I couldn't help it. I laughed.

I kept laughing, and then the tears came down.

The next second, I sent him a voice message.

"You're so eager to protect her? Then marry her. Bring her home right now. I'll step aside. I'll even wish you both a hundred years of happiness."

This time, he replied fast.

"Vera, why do you keep saying things you don't mean? I've told you so many times — my wife will only ever be you. Girls like her are nothing. Just entertainment. Don't read so much into it. Get some rest. I'll come home tomorrow and spend the day with you."

I read the message, and all I felt was a vast, hollow exhaustion.

Like throwing a punch into cotton. No impact. No sound. Nothing coming back.

I let out a quiet, bitter laugh, too tired to trade another word with him over things that meant nothing, and turned off my phone.

The next day.

After lunch, I drove to the old Moretti estate. I brought the imperial jade set that Donna Winslow had given me on my wedding day. The necklace, the earrings, the bracelet. Heirloom pieces, supposedly passed through the family for generations. Sacred things.

My timing was poor.

Don Winslow and Donna Winslow had left for Bali at dawn. The estate steward told me they wouldn't return for a month.

I said nothing more. I left the velvet case with the steward, turned, and walked out.

My thumb pressed the worn edge of my grandmother's pocket watch as I crossed the gravel drive. By the time I reached the car, my hand was steady.

After leaving the old estate, I went to a spa in the city. Afterward, I stopped at a boutique and bought over a dozen pairs of earrings that caught my eye.

When I finally returned home, the lights in the main room were already on.

Dante sat on the leather sofa. The table in front of him was covered in gift boxes, stacked neatly, ribbons and branded tissue spilling from their edges.

He heard me come in. Set his phone down. Looked up.

"The steward says you returned the heirloom set?"

"I did."

He exhaled slowly. Rose from the couch and came to sit beside me.

"Still angry? Come on. Don't be like this. I brought all of these for you." He gestured at the boxes. "Just forgive me this once. Alright?"

I looked at him, and something in me almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

In his mind, returning the heirlooms was a tantrum. A mood. A wife throwing a fit because she needed more attention.

Not a woman who no longer wanted a single thread connecting her to him.

He was so certain. So impossibly certain that I would never leave.

That certainty was why he dared do whatever he pleased. Why he could propose that they each "have their own fun" as though it were reasonable. Why he could parade other women in front of me, again and again, and expect me to still be sitting here when he came home.

I didn't answer.

I glanced at the familiar logos stamped across the gift boxes, and something cold and mocking flickered behind my eyes.

"What I want," I said, "can only ever be one of a kind."