I married Dante Falcone, the Don of Chicago's Falcone crime family.

Three years into our arranged marriage, and he still didn't know what I looked like.

He could remember every one of his men, every single enemy, but he could never remember me.

If I changed my hairstyle, he would press the muzzle of his gun against my temple and demand to know who sent me.

If I wore a new dress, he would mistake me for a new maid in the manor.

Once, during a firefight with a rival family, we were trapped together in a collapsed basement.

I groped my way through the darkness to his side and told him my name was Isabella.

But he shoved me away. "Shut up. My wife isn't even here."

In the end, it took his men three whole days of digging to rescue me.

That night, at a family meeting, Dante raised his glass. "Thank God, we didn't lose anyone."

He had completely forgotten about me, still laid up in a hospital bed.

From then on, I wore only pure white dresses, kept the exact same hairstyle, and used the same perfume.

All in the desperate hope that he might finally recognize me.

But every time, his gaze would slide right past me as if I were a stranger.

Until I flew to New York City to attend a charity gala he was at.

I watched as he cut through the dense crowd and, with unerring precision, swept a woman in a red dress into a deep kiss.

In that instant, I finally understood.

It wasn't that he couldn't remember a woman's face. He just didn't love me.

Fine. If that’s how it is, then from now on, we are nothing more than strangers to each other.

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1

I had just turned to leave when several uniformed Sicilian police officers swarmed me.

They roughly shoved me to the ground.

My face was pressed hard against the cold stone pavement.

Panic seized me, and my eyes instinctively shot toward Dante, who stood not far away.

"Dante! Save me! They have the wrong person!"

I screamed with everything I had.

He heard me. His gaze sliced through the crowd and landed on my face.

Then, as if looking at a piece of furniture, he calmly shifted his gaze away.

"I don't know her."

Those were the cruelest words I had ever heard.

Fifteen whole days.

I endured three hundred and sixty hours in a sunless interrogation room and a frigid jail cell.

I wasn't released until the family’s lawyer—our Consigliere, Leo—intervened with a document proving my innocence.

I dragged my exhausted body out of the police station. It wasn't Dante who greeted me, but Leo.

Leo pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses. "Mrs. Falcone, what in God's name were you thinking?"

His tone was glacial. "Do you have any idea how much damage you've caused the family's reputation in Italy?"

The last bit of warmth in my heart was utterly extinguished by the cold Sicilian wind.

When I returned to Chicago and stepped into the manor, I was immediately enveloped by countless scrutinizing stares.

My imprisonment had become the family's juiciest scandal.

Dante didn't ask a single question about my well-being. The first words out of his mouth were a reprimand.

"How many times have I told you? You wear white when you go out."

He scowled, his voice laced with the kind of impatience reserved for a disobedient pet. "You know I have face blindness. You know I can't tell women's faces apart."

"Why can't you just listen?"

I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms.

He turned a page in his file and, without looking up, issued a second command. "Leo has drafted a statement. You'll hold a press conference tomorrow."

"You will clarify things. And you will publicly apologize for this scandal."

Apologize?

What the hell did I have to apologize for? For Dante Falcone's cold-blooded heartlessness? Or for his so-called "face blindness"?

I stared at his indifferent profile. Instead of answering, I asked quietly, "Who was that woman you kissed at the gala?"

His hand stilled on the file, a rare flicker of panic crossing his features.

After a few seconds of silence, he finally spoke. "There were too many people. I thought it was you."

A bitter, humorless laugh almost escaped me.

That woman wore a flame-red dress, her hair in large, wavy curls I had never worn.

And in my closet, there was nothing but white.

"Dante, I called your name so loudly that day."

Bitterness churned in my stomach, but I had to ask.

"So?" Dante lifted his eyes. "You want me to apologize to you? For my condition?"

"Isabella, you knew I had this problem long before we married."

"This was your choice."

A wave of exhaustion washed over me as I looked at his cold, unconcerned expression.

He was right. This was my own doing.

"Fine, I'll go to the press conference."

Hearing my ready agreement, Dante fell silent, his gaze fixed on the tablet I carried.

The corner of a screenshot from casino surveillance peeked out from the screen.

I followed his gaze and realized the open page showed a blurry picture of dozens of people from behind.

And in the most inconspicuous corner sat a woman in a black dress.

It was Camila, the woman Dante had kissed.

The photo was so blurry you could barely make out their silhouettes.

But Dante, with a single glance, had spotted her.

So, it wasn't that he couldn't recognize people.

He just couldn't recognize the one he didn't love.

An invisible vise clamped around my heart, making each breath a stabbing pain.

But I managed a brittle smile, took the tablet, and slid it across the desk toward him.

"Here, you can have it. I don't want it anymore."

The title of Mrs. Falcone.

The three years of being ignored.

I didn't want any of it.

The next day, I arrived at the family's charity press conference on time.

The camera flashes were a blinding assault, like a thousand tiny daggers.

I wore a long, bright red dress, a direct defiance of the white Dante had demanded.

Taking the microphone, I spoke calmly.

"The reason I was wrongfully arrested is because my husband, Mr. Dante Falcone, told the Sicilian police to their faces that he did not know me."

The room erupted in a storm of whispers.

I paused, looking at a specific camera as if I were looking right through it at Dante.

"I imagine a man who can't recognize his wife of three years must be suffering terribly in this marriage."

"So, I've decided to grant him his wish."

"And so, I, Isabella, am announcing my formal separation from the Falcone family."

It wasn't until I was in the car that I realized my hands had been shaking the whole time.

Perhaps it was fear, but it was overshadowed by the relief of casting off my shackles.

Before I could even turn on my phone, a black Bentley cut my car off.

Dante stormed out of the car, his face a thunderous mask.

"Isabella, are you insane?!"

He yanked me out of the car, his grip so tight it felt as if he would shatter my wrist.

"Who gave you the nerve to spout that nonsense at a press conference!"

I stared coldly at his face, twisted in rage.

"Which part of what I said wasn't the truth?"

My question struck him dumb for a moment before his anger flared even hotter.

"Do you have any idea what kind of trouble this will cause? How many people you'll hurt?"

"What if they dig into Sicily? What if Camila gets dragged into this? She just secured a performance at the La Scala opera house in Milan!"

So, he *could* tell people apart. When it was Camila, he was never confused. Not once.

The ache in my chest blossomed into a searing pain, threatening to tear me apart.

"Dante, you can recognize her."

Dante's face was a mask of unconcealed irritation. "So what? She's different. But I still married you."

"You are my wife."

"And don't you forget, you're the one who begged for all of this."

He was right. It was my obsession.

How could I have been so foolish? To think a man who couldn't remember my face might remember a promise from twenty years ago.

What a pathetic fool.

I wiped the tears from my face. "Dante, I'm done forcing it. Let's just let each other go. Let's get a divorce."

Seeing me say this, Dante's face showed none of the relief I had expected.

After a long pause, as if he had made a momentous decision, he spoke, his voice a bit hoarse.

"Stop making a scene. Go back to how you were, always in white, and I won't mistake you again."

"I'm not divorcing you."

"Is that so?" I tilted my head up, a smile playing on my lips.

He had clearly forgotten the stack of documents I'd handed him that very morning.

I had only put on a hat and a different suit, and he had automatically assumed I was a new employee.

He hadn't even looked before signing the divorce agreement I had tucked inside.

Dante held my hand, his voice low as he promised, "Isabella, be good. I promise I won't lose you again."

A sarcastic smile touched my lips, and I was about to tell him everything.

But Dante suddenly pushed me away and bolted in another direction.

I followed his gaze and saw Camila's retreating back.

Halfway to her, Dante seemed to remember something.

He turned and shouted, "Isabella, wait for me! I'll be right back."

But even as he spoke to me, his body was already carrying him toward another woman.

She was wearing a red dress, just like me.

I turned and walked away without a second thought.

Dante was furious about my unannounced departure.

I ignored him. After all, if I just changed my clothes, I was invisible to him.

Once all the paperwork to leave Chicago was settled, the first thing I did was go to a department store for a new wardrobe.

For all these years, just to earn a single glance from Dante, my wardrobe had become a sea of uniform white, making me feel like a ghost haunting my own life.

The sight of it now made me nauseous.

A salesclerk enthusiastically presented a fiery red haute couture gown.

Just as I was about to pay, a sharp voice cut in.

"I'll take this one, too."

I turned my head and met Camila's arrogant gaze.

She sized me up. "Still trying so hard? Didn't Sicily teach you a lesson?"

"Dante doesn't love you. No matter how expensive your clothes are, to him, you're just thin air."

"He doesn't even recognize you, hahahaha!"

I wouldn't waste my breath on her. I took the black card from my wallet and handed it to the clerk.

"This one she touched, and every other style in this collection, wrap them all up for me."

"And please, show her out."

The salesclerk was about to usher her out when Dante appeared.

He walked straight to Camila, not even sparing me a glance.

"Wrap up the dress for Miss Camila."

The clerk was stunned, whispering, "Don, but this lady is your…"

I wore heavy makeup and my hair was styled in dramatic Latin curls.

As expected, Dante didn't recognize me.

"Who the hell is she?" Dante's voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough for the entire boutique to hear.

"Some nobody thinks she can compete with Camila?"

He turned to the frozen salesclerk, his tone an unchallengeable command.

"From this day on, remember Miss Camila's face. In the future, all businesses under the Falcone family will give her unconditional priority."

Camila, with a magnanimous air, tossed the dress down. "That won't be necessary. It's not like I'm short on dresses."

"Just let the unloved, pitiful creature have it."

Dante didn't press the issue. "As long as you're happy."

I stood there, watching as Dante's gaze remained fixed on Camila, and the last ember of warmth in my heart died.