My expression remained unchanged as I nodded lightly. "Rocco, you've misunderstood."

I raised my wine glass, my voice calm and gentle.

"Your future wife. I wouldn't dream of slighting her."

The crimson liquid swirling in the glass looked too much like the blood I had lost in my past life. My fingers trembled slightly, but I forced myself to remain composed.

Hearing my detached tone, Rocco's hand, holding his fork and knife, froze mid-air.

A muscle in his brow twitched. He was about to speak.

Clara gently touched his arm. "Rocco, it's alright. Harper is the family's Principessa. It's normal for her to be a little proud. I'll do my best to win her over."

She clearly didn't understand the power dynamics at play.

Rocco ignored her, setting down his utensils to continue staring at me.

"Don't say that, Clara," he said, his voice indulgent. "Harper is just shy. She's actually very sweet. You two will get along once you spend more time together."

The way he framed it, I was the one at fault.

My stepmother tried to smooth things over. "Alright, now, it's so rare for the whole family to be together..."

This was Rocco's specialty. That lethal gentleness.

In my last life, I drowned in the illusion of his deep affection, right until he personally pushed me into the abyss, his face still wearing that same "I'm doing this for your own good" expression.

I set down my silverware, my appetite gone.

The memory of being starved to skin and bones in that rival family's warehouse stole my appetite. I had been looking forward to a hot meal.

I should have just gone with my father to deal with the family business.

I couldn't stand another second of this meal.

"I'm finished. Please, enjoy yourselves."

I dabbed my lips with my napkin and rose from the table.

Half an hour later, I was about to leave for my father's legitimate enterprise in an armored sedan.

I had just opened the door and settled into the back seat when the door on the other side was pulled open.

Rocco leaned in, his eyes full of concern and confusion.

The dim back seat instantly became an intimate, enclosed space for just the two of us.

"Harper, what's wrong with you today? You wouldn't even respond to me."

Rocco's long fingers reached out, his fingertips gently stroking my cheek.

"You're never this quiet. You didn't say a word at the table. I was worried about you."

"Tell me, is this about Clara? Are you jealous?"

His warm touch made my stomach churn, reminding me of that dark warehouse from my past life. Faced with endless humiliation, all I could do was cry and scream until I became numb and hopeless.

I quietly clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms, using the sharp pain to suppress the turmoil rising within me.

I turned my head slightly to avoid his touch, "Brother, you're mistaken."

I didn't look at him. "You and Clara are a perfect match. I'm truly happy for you."

Rocco let out a low chuckle.

He didn't pull back. Instead, he moved closer, his warm breath fanning across my ear.

His hand slid down from my cheek, stopping at the nape of my neck.

He knew my body intimately, knew that was one of my most sensitive spots.

His fingertips drew slow circles, his voice low and husky. "Is that so?"

"But Harper, if I recall correctly, when I was teaching you how to hold a gun, your heart was pounding louder than the gunshots."

"Harper, you don't have to pretend to be strong in front of me."

"I still remember how you cried and tripped down the stairs when you saw me writing love letters to Clara."

He lowered his head, his nose almost brushing my neck, as if greedily inhaling my scent.

"I know your secret, good girl."

"You love me. You're crazy about me."

Those words were like a rusty, sugar-coated knife, stabbing into my heart all over again.

Yes, I had loved him once.

I was young when my stepmother, Elena, married my father. The family business was just starting to take off.

My father was busy expanding his empire in both legitimate business and the underworld, while my stepmother was busy managing her social calendar among the city's elite.

It was Rocco, this brother with no blood relation, who wove a giant cocoon around me with his meticulous "care."

He would stay up all night by my side when I was hurt and gently defend me when I was scolded.

He seemed to have an endless supply of patience and gentleness for me. "Don't cry, little princess. Your tears are too precious to be wasted on small things."

Exquisite toys from his drawer, limited-edition desserts, surprises at my birthday parties, Rocco took care of everything for me.

He would say softly, "No matter what, you'll always be my little princess. All the beautiful things others have, you must have them too."

Later, as a teenager, I was sensitive and my feelings were just beginning to bloom.

Rocco was still with me every day.

He patiently taught me how to shoot, how to read people, and then, intentionally or not, drove away every suitor who came near me.

His men would joke, "Rocco, you treat Harper so well, taking her everywhere. You raising a future wife or something?"

Rocco would just smile faintly. "She's my most precious treasure."

To this day, I remember when the youngest Moretti son stood outside our estate with roses for three days straight, Rocco dragged him out with a stern face.

"Harper is my family. Please stay away from her."

How could a young girl's fragile heart have resisted?

But the pain of my past life taught me just how wrong I was.

Seeing my silence, Rocco assumed I had given in once more.

He cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. "Harper, don't look at me like that."

"You know it's impossible between us."

The atmosphere was intimate and his voice was full of deep affection, yet every word was like a shard of ice.

"I can't give you what you want, so don't force me to hurt you."

He paused, leaning closer to my lips.

"If you and I... last night... of course I would have taken responsibility. But for you to do what you did, it only makes me feel,"

"like you've cheapened the special bond between us."

My heart felt as if it had been crushed by an invisible hand, followed by a cold, numb silence.

I watched Rocco's black Maybach disappear into the night.

Straightening the collar he had messed up, I didn't go home. Instead, I drove to the private art studio I rented in the East District.

It was my sanctuary, a place that held all my secrets and the foolish love of my girlhood.

While waiting at a red light, my phone screen lit up.

Clara had just posted a new Instagram story.

In the photo, her hand, adorned with a diamond engagement ring, was intertwined with Rocco's. The background was blurry, but I recognized it instantly as the neighborhood near my studio.

The caption was so glaring it was impossible to ignore: "Walking the paths he once walked, as if it would let me possess his entire past."

The light turned green. I slammed on the gas.

A sense of foreboding wrapped tightly around my heart.

When I arrived at the studio, I found the reinforced metal door pried open, its high-security lock smashed.

The air was thick with the acrid smell of oil paints and solvents.

I stepped inside. The studio looked like it had been ransacked after a gang war.

Easels were knocked to the ground.

The portrait of Rocco, a piece I had spent three months on, even mixing in my own blood as pigment, was now lying on the filthy floor.

The canvas had been slashed to ribbons, the eyes in particular viciously stabbed through.

I rushed to the safe in the corner.

The door was wide open.

The velvet box inside, which once held the first bullet casing Rocco ever gave me, was empty.

Rage boiled in my veins for a moment, only for me to take a few deep breaths, struggling to keep myself composed.

The sound of high heels clicking on the floor came from behind me.

Clara appeared in the doorway, clinging to Rocco's arm, her face a mask of a frightened little rabbit.

"Oh, Harper, what are you doing here?"

She shrank into Rocco's embrace, her voice trembling. "Rocco, I told you she would be angry if we accidentally broke something..."

Rocco frowned, his gaze sweeping over the mess on the floor before settling on my expressionless face.

He stroked Clara's back to comfort her, then turned to me with an apologetic look. "Harper, I'm really sorry."

His voice was as gentle as if he were soothing an injured child.

"Clara just wanted to get to know you better and accidentally knocked over the easel. You know she's always wanted to be close to you. Please don't be mad at her."

"My dear sister, I know you might be unhappy, but you can't keep wearing that expression that tells everyone to stay away."

He approached me cautiously, the pity and affection in his eyes only deepening.

"I know how much you cherish these paintings. Tell me what was damaged, and I'll replace everything."

I stared quietly at the ruins on the floor: the paintings that had once held all my girlish dreams, and finally, I just shook my head gently.

"That won't be necessary."

My voice was so calm it surprised even me.

Rocco froze, the words he had prepared catching in his throat.

He took an uneasy step forward. "Harper? You're really not angry?"

"Brother."

I cut him off, bending down to pick up the ruined portrait.

"I'm not angry."

I looked up, my eyes vacant, as though I were looking at two strangers.

"If Clara wants to look at things, or do whatever she wants, she's welcome to. But now that it's broken, there's no reason to keep it."

I dragged the large canvas, grabbed the thick stack of love letter drafts from a drawer, and headed for the burn barrel in the alley behind the studio.

The December night wind in New York was biting.

I struck a match and watched the flame lick at the shattered image of Rocco's face on the canvas.

The oil paint sizzled, sending up plumes of black smoke.

Rocco rushed out after me, his voice sharp with alarm when he saw what I was doing. "Harper, what are you doing?"

I tossed the letters, filled with a young girl's unsent confessions, into the barrel one by one.

"Taking out the trash."

As I watched the flames consume the words "I love you, Rocco,"my eyes felt hot, but I gritted my teeth and refused to let a single tear fall.

It didn't matter that the bullet casing was gone.

The painting was destroyed, and with it, my idealized image of him, shattered beyond repair.

My memories of Rocco had all been tainted. There was no point in keeping these things anymore.

Rocco watched my indifferent profile, illuminated by the firelight, his brow furrowed. It seemed, for the first time, that things were slipping from his control.

"Weren't these your most precious things? Why are you burning them?"

"You said it yourself. That was the past. People always have to grow up."

I dusted off my hands and turned away, not sparing another glance at the barrel of ashes, or at him.

"I'll buy you new ones..."

I pulled open the car door and got in, his voice fading behind me.

All of his false affection was shut out by the bulletproof glass.

In the days that followed, Rocco didn't speak a single word to me.

He was busy parading his love for Clara throughout our family's social circles.

Everyone could see he was utterly besotted with her, doting on her to the point of obsession.

I stumbled upon them several times in the estate, being openly affectionate, Rocco holding Clara tenderly in his arms or placing a light kiss on her forehead.

He seemed... truly devoted to Clara.

Rocco convinced my father and stepmother, Elena, to hold a grand wedding in two weeks' time.

Clara was the moon and stars to him.

Of course he couldn't tolerate his woman being questioned or wronged in any way.

Clara even smugly posted a photo on Instagram: she was wearing a six-figure custom evening gown, with Rocco embracing her from behind.

The caption read: "A decade of familiarity can't compare to the passion ignited by love at first sight."

But none of this could stir the slightest ripple in my heart anymore.

Rocco, you still think this is just a little tantrum to get your attention.

You still think that all you have to do is call my name gently, and you'll come running back to his arms like a tamed kitten.

But this time, my plans are already set.

I am leaving New York.

In his office, my father's gaze was as sharp as a hawk's.

"Harper, you need to think this through."

"Our legitimate businesses in Europe are the family's future, but they are also our soft underbelly."

He tapped the mahogany desk.

"For these four years, I will not provide you with any of the family's muscle. If you can't carve out a piece of the European market for us, then don't bother coming back."

"The Costello family has no need for pretty ornaments. If you return a sheep, I will find a more capable wolf to inherit my empire."

I looked at my father intently.

In my past life, I always thought he only cared about business, that he was indifferent to me.

That was why I was drawn to Rocco's twisted affection like a moth to a flame.

But I understand now. That wasn't it.

He loves me.

Just in his own way.

I spoke softly. "Don't worry, Papa."

I'll prove it to you.

Back in my bedroom, I pulled out a suitcase.

I didn't pack anything related to Rocco, only a few tailored suits and necessary documents.

Unexpectedly, Rocco walked in without knocking.

He was holding a box of my favorite French macarons. Seeing me packing, he immediately came over and gently took my wrist. "Harper?"

He sighed. "How long are you going to keep this up?"

"Where are you going with all this luggage? Are you running away just to make a point?"

I didn't look at him, continuing to fold a silk blouse. "I'm going on a trip."

Rocco's tense shoulders relaxed slightly. He clearly thought I was just going on a vacation to blow off steam.

"A trip? That's fine. Go shop, relax. But how long will you be gone?"

"A few months," I said indifferently.

Rocco's brow furrowed instantly, his displeasure evident. "A few months? Harper, don't be childish. You're going to miss the wedding."

"There's no one to take care of you over there, no one to peel your shrimp, no one to even pick you up when it rains."

"Or is it... you just can't stand seeing me and Clara together?"

I remained silent.

How could I explain to him that my life was about more than petty jealousy? That it included my education, my career, and a much bigger future.

But in Rocco's eyes, my silence was an admission of guilt.

He glanced around anxiously, his gaze finally landing on the exquisite pistol case in the trash can. He was stunned.

It was his coming-of-age gift to me, a gun he had personally placed by my pillow, saying it would protect my dreams in his place.

Rocco's gentle mask finally cracked.

"You threw it away?"

"Harper, that was my gift to protect you. You said you would keep it forever."

I calmly closed my suitcase and snapped the latches shut.

"I've grown up, brother."

"Besides, I'm going to Europe. It would just collect dust at home. Better to get rid of it now."

Rocco was speechless.

After a long pause, he managed to force out a few words. "Fine, Harper. Just fine!"

"Go on your little vacation. But when you're done throwing your tantrum, you come back."

He leaned in, whispering by my ear, "My little princess, when you can't take it anymore, don't try to handle it on your own. You call me, and I'll have someone bring you back."

"And another thing, don't mess around out there. If I find out you've slept with some random guy just to spite me..."

His fingers squeezed my shoulder hard, leaving a sharp pain.

"I'll kill him."

I almost scoffed. This time, Rocco, you were completely wrong.

In addition to my studies, my father has also tasked me with managing our overseas assets. I doubt I'll have time for anything else.

Three days later, the estate was ablaze with lights for Rocco and Clara's engagement party.

All the bodyguards had been reassigned to the front of the house to maintain order, and my father was still tied up with complicated family business.

I changed into a black trench coat and, dragging my suitcase, slipped quietly out a side door.

I got into the car that was waiting to take me to the airport, never looking back.

Inside the grand hall, the engagement party was in full swing.

Rocco stood at the center of the room, his arm around Clara's waist. But his eyes kept darting toward the staircase, searching for a figure that wasn't there.

"It's a shame Harper isn't here," Rocco said to a group of family associates, his voice tinged with nonchalance,"She's still throwing a tantrum. Gone on some vacation."

The group fell silent. They exchanged awkward glances, looking at Rocco as if he were the only one not in on a joke.

"Vacation?" one of the older Capos asked, staring at Rocco weirdly. "Don't you know?"

"Know what?" Rocco's frown deepened.

"Harper isn't on vacation," the Capo said, "She's been admitted to London Business School. The Don has signed over full control of the European Business to her."

"She left on a one-way ticket an hour ago. I doubt she'll ever come back to New York."