I stood in the doorway of the study.

Marco was hanging up the phone, a flush on his face from the tenderness of his call with Isabella.

When he saw me, it vanished. Replaced by an icy guard.

“Samara. What are you doing here?”

His tone was for an unwelcome stranger.

The old me would have cried. Would have asked him why he was so cold.

Now, I just wanted to laugh.

“This is my house, Marco. Or did you forget?” I let the words hang in the air.

Until Marco finished devouring the Romano family business, I was still the one in charge here.

A flash of anger crossed his face.

“I meant you should have knocked. I’m handling important family business.”

“Is plotting my murder part of ‘family business’ now?”

My voice was dead calm.

The color drained from Marco’s face. “What did you hear?”

“I heard enough.” I strolled to my father’s whiskey bar and poured a drink. “It was all very touching.”

Just then, the study door swung open.

Isabella walked in, wearing the one-of-a-kind Valentino wedding dress.

My wedding dress.

And now, she was wearing it.

Isabella feigned innocence, a hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, my! Samara, I didn’t know you were here.”

She turned to Marco, her eyes full of pouty charm. “Darling, you didn’t tell me she was still here.”

Marco’s expression softened instantly. “Isabella, you don’t have to apologize. This will all be ours soon enough.”

I felt the room spin.

A scene from my past life flashed in my mind.

Me, in this same dress, crying in front of the mirror.

Because Marco had said Isabella looked better in white.

“White is too pure for you, Samara. Don’t you think red suits you better?”

In the end, I wore a blood-red dress to my own blood oath ceremony.

Like an animal for slaughter.

And now, Isabella was here, wearing my wedding dress, parading her victory.

“That dress is beautiful,” I said with a light laugh.

Isabella froze, clearly not expecting that.

“Is it? I thought you’d be angry,” she said, feigning concern. “It was made for you, after all.”

“Angry?” I shook my head. “Why would I be? It suits you perfectly.”

I stepped closer, looking the dress over.

“You know, I always thought this dress was a bit much. Too heavy for me.”

Isabella’s smile was a little tight. “Really?”

“But on you, it’s perfect.” My own smile grew wider. “After all, a woman like you needs a good costume to play the part.”

The air in the room went still.

Marco’s face was like stone. “Samara, what are you saying?”

“I’m complimenting Isabella,” I said, turning to him. “Don’t you think she looks beautiful in it?”

Marco’s gaze snapped to Isabella, his eyes full of a fierce need to protect her.

“Of course she’s beautiful. Isabella is beautiful in anything.”

The words were a clean, sharp knife in my gut.

In our past life, he never once called me beautiful.

Even in our wedding photos, he looked like he was at a funeral.

“Well, since you two are a perfect match, I won’t disturb you.”

I turned to leave, but Marco stopped me.

“Wait.” He took my favorite whiskey from the cabinet.

“Have a drink?” He tried to make his voice gentle. “We need to talk.”

I looked at the bottle. I remembered this from before.

Every time Marco hurt me, he’d pull out the whiskey to ‘make peace.’

As if a glass of liquor could wash away the wounds.

“No, thank you,” I said, sharp and final. “I don’t drink.”

Marco frowned. “You never used to be like this.”

“People change, Marco.” I met his eyes. “Sometimes, you change to survive.”

Isabella cut in. “Perhaps Samara just needs time to adjust to the new arrangement.”

She sounded considerate, but her eyes were gleaming with triumph.

“Speaking of arrangements,” I said, as if I’d just remembered. “Marco, I need my mother’s trust fund.”

The color drained from Marco’s face.

“What trust fund?”

“Don’t play dumb,” my voice turned cold. “My mother put fifty million dollars in a trust for me before she died. For my future. I need it now.”

Marco and Isabella exchanged a look.

I saw the panic in their eyes.

Marco scrambled for an excuse. “That money… it was repurposed. For a critical family investment.”

“What investment?”

He couldn’t meet my eyes. “The Tear of Sicily. I bought it for Isabella. It was a… gesture of goodwill. To the Falcones.”

The Tear of Sicily.

Auction price: forty-eight million dollars.

My mother’s blood money, used by this man to buy a trinket for another woman.

I felt a wave of dizziness and almost collapsed.

Isabella proudly held up her left hand. The pink diamond glittered under the light.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? Marco said only I was worthy of it.”

I stared at the diamond, remembering my mother’s hand in mine as she was dying.

“Samara, I earned this money with my life. If you ever need to escape, don’t hesitate.”

Now, the money she’d earned with her life was a decoration on another woman’s hand.

I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to scream.

“I see.”

I turned and walked to the door.

Marco called out from behind me.

“Samara.”

He came to my side, his voice low and laced with a threat.

“Don’t forget your place, Samara. You’re a Romano heir. Your weakness is our weakness. And right now, we need the Falcones.”

He slammed the study door shut behind me. The sound was like a gunshot.

I stood in the hall, feeling more alone than ever.

The home I grew up in now felt more suffocating than a prison.

But I had the key.

The name on the blood pact was changed.

Soon, Marco would discover he hadn't gotten a tool, but the woman he truly wanted.

And I would finally be free of this hell.

Over the next few days, I started secretly selling off my luxuries.

Limited-edition bags, diamond necklaces, priceless pieces of art.

Everything my mother had picked out for me.

Now, they were my ticket out of this hell.

I moved the money through an offshore company into a Swiss bank account.

Marco was oblivious.

He was too busy planning a “honeymoon” with Isabella.

On the third morning, Marco knocked on my door.

“Samara, I need to talk to you.”

His voice was a little softer than before, but his eyes were still empty.

I opened the door. He was holding a check.

“This is for you,” he said, handing it to me. “The trust fund was used, but I’m not leaving you with nothing.”

I glanced at the number.

One million dollars.

A generous compensation for my mother’s fifty-million-dollar legacy.

The old me would have cried with gratitude, thinking he was planning for our future.

The new me wanted to laugh in his face.

“Thank you for your generosity, Marco.”

I took the check. My calm surprised him.

“And I’m taking Isabella to Las Vegas,” he continued. “The family has some business to handle there.”

“That’s nice,” I nodded. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Marco frowned.

My obedience was making him nervous.

In my last life, my screaming fits were my only shield. He knew I’d call my father’s old guard and watch his new empire burn. That fear kept me alive. This time, my silence was the weapon.

“You… you really don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind?” I gave him a hollow smile. “Business is business.”

Marco stared at me for a long time, his eyes full of confusion and unease.

“Maybe we should get the official family heir portraits done first,” he said suddenly. “It’s important for the family’s image.”

I knew he was testing me.

Trying to use a formal ritual to make sure I was still under his thumb.

“Of course,” I said, still compliant. “When?”

“This afternoon.” A flicker of pride crossed his face. “I’ve booked the best photographer in Chicago.”

As we spoke, Isabella floated down the staircase.

She was wearing a pink Chanel suit, looking sweet and innocent as a lamb.

“Darling, what are you two talking about?” She linked her arm through Marco’s.

“We’re going to get our family portraits taken,” Marco said, his voice softening for her.

Isabella’s eyes lit up. “Really? Can I come?”

She turned to me, pretending to ask for permission. “If Samara doesn’t mind, of course.”

The old me would have refused. Point-blank.

A family portrait was sacred. For official members only.

But now? I couldn’t wait for her to go.

“Of course,” I said. “As our most important ally, Miss Falcone should be there.”

Marco’s look grew even more complicated.

He was starting to realize I had changed, but he had no idea what it meant.

That afternoon, we arrived at the most exclusive photo studio on Michigan Avenue.

The photographer was a German man named Andreas, who shot portraits only for the elite.

“Mr. Corvini, a pleasure,” Andreas greeted us. “We are shooting the official portrait for the family heir today, correct?”

“Yes,” Marco nodded. “This is my fiancée, Samara Romano.”

The title felt like a sting.

Even now, he still saw me as his property.

“And this lovely lady?” Andreas gestured to Isabella.

“Isabella Falcone,” Marco’s voice went soft. “A… friend of the family.”

A friend of the family.

That’s what he called her in our past life, too.

Until the day I died, I was the “wife,” and she was always the “friend.”

But everyone knew which one he really loved.

“Before we begin, I need a prop,” Marco said, walking over to an antique jewelry box.

It held the Corvini family’s ruby ring, an heirloom passed down for five generations.

It symbolized the power of the family’s matriarch.

Last time, I didn't get to wear this ring until after we were married.

And even then, I never held the power it represented.

Marco picked up the ring and started walking toward me.

“Samara, this is…”

“Wow!” Isabella suddenly shrieked. “That ring is gorgeous!”

Without asking, she snatched the ring right out of Marco’s hand.

“Can I just try it on?” she asked, blinking her big, innocent eyes.

Marco’s instinct was to stop her, but her pleading look made him soften.

“Alright. But just to try.”

His indulgence was another tear in my heart.

The ring of the Corvini matriarch, slipped so easily onto another woman’s finger.

Isabella admired it on her hand. “It’s like it was made for me!”

Andreas started setting up the shot.

“Let’s start with a few of Mr. Corvini and Miss Falcone,” he suggested. “While the ring is on her hand.”

I watched Marco and Isabella pose. They hugged, they kissed, they tangled themselves up in intimate ways.

Andreas took at least a hundred shots.

In every single one, Marco’s eyes were full of a tenderness I had never seen.

“And now for Mr. Corvini and Miss Romano,” Andreas finally called me over.

Just as Marco walked toward me, Isabella “accidentally” bumped into a piece of equipment.

The expensive Hasselblad camera crashed to the floor, the lens shattering.

“Oh, my god! I’m so clumsy!” Isabella gasped, looking horrified.

Andreas’s face went pale. “The camera… we can’t shoot anymore today.”

Marco frowned, but when he saw the tears welling in Isabella’s eyes, his heart melted.

“It’s fine. We’ll reschedule,” he soothed her. “Don’t blame yourself.”

I watched the whole scene with cold detachment.

Isabella’s “accident.” Marco’s indulgence. The fact that I was, once again, forgotten.

It was all exactly the same as last time.

Back at the estate, Marco called me into his study.

“I have something for you.”

He pulled a plane ticket from his drawer.

One-way. Destination: Sicily.

“What is this?” I asked.

“I think you need a vacation,” Marco said, avoiding my eyes. “We have a family villa in Sicily. You can rest there for a while.”

I looked at the date on the ticket.

Three days from now.

“This is exile,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

Marco’s face darkened.

“It’s not exile. It’s for your protection,” he said coldly. “Chicago isn’t safe for you right now.”

“And when will you come get me?”

Marco was silent for a long moment.

“After I’ve stabilized the alliance with the Falcone family here in the States.”

His answer confirmed it.

He was shipping me off so he and Isabella could be together without any inconvenience.

“I understand,” I said, taking the ticket. “Thank you for the arrangement.”

My compliance made him uneasy again.

“Samara, you…”

He was cut off by the screech of tires outside.

We went to the window and saw a black Lincoln sedan skid to a halt at the estate gates.

A second later, the window rolled down and the black barrel of a gun appeared.

Marco’s face changed. “Get down!”

The second the shots rang out, I saw Marco’s true instinct.

He didn’t move toward me.

He threw himself over Isabella, shielding her with his body, ready to take any bullet meant for her.

He didn’t hesitate.

He shoved me into the heavy oak bookshelf.

I slammed against the wood, and a rain of books crashed down on me.

The sharp corner of one sliced my arm open.

Blood bloomed across my white silk sleeve, a dark, ugly flower.

Pain shot through my body, but it was nothing compared to the feeling of my heart being ripped to shreds.

When the gunfire stopped, Marco didn't check on me.

He checked on Isabella, who was trembling in his arms.

“Baby, are you okay? Are you hurt?” His voice was a raw mix of panic and devotion.

“No… no,” Isabella sobbed. “Marco, I was so scared.”

“Don’t be. I’m here.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”

I’ll never let anyone hurt you.

That was the final blow. The last shred of hope I had for him died right there.

I lay on the floor, watching them cling to each other.

Blood was pooling from my arm, staining the Persian rug a dark, ugly red.

Marco hadn’t even glanced my way.

His entire world was Isabella.

“Marco…” I called out, my voice weak.

He finally noticed me.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face.

“Just a minute, Samara. Isabella is in shock.”

She was in shock.

I was bleeding out.

I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by a despair so total it felt like drowning.

Twenty years.

My whole life, I thought one day, Marco would finally see me.

Now I knew.

In his heart, I would never, ever matter more than Isabella.

Not even when death was at the door.

The family’s bodyguards rushed into the study, securing the room.

“Boss, it was the Torrino family,” his second-in-command, Antonio, reported. “They’ve pulled back.”

Marco nodded, still holding Isabella.

“Double the security on the estate,” he ordered. “And put a detail on Isabella. Full time.”

Antonio’s eyes fell on me. “Boss, Miss Romano is hurt.”

Only then did Marco bother to look at me, his eyes empty of concern.

“Get the doctor to look at it,” he said, his tone like he was ordering someone to fix a broken chair.

Then he scooped Isabella up into his arms and carried her toward the guest suite upstairs.

“You need to rest,” he murmured to her, his voice so gentle it made me want to vomit.

I was left alone on the study floor, staring at the ornate ceiling.

The blood kept coming. The pain was making me dizzy.

But my mind had never been clearer.

This was Marco’s “love” for me.

When danger came, I wasn’t even worth a look.

Two hours later, I was in the Corvini family’s private clinic.

The wound wasn’t deep, but the blood loss made me look pale and frail.

As the doctor stitched me up, I waited for Marco.

I waited for three hours.

Nothing.

“Miss Romano,” a nurse finally came in. “Mr. Corvini asked me to tell you something. Miss Falcone was badly shaken. She needs him. He’ll check on you later.”

Later.

I was nearly killed, and he’d get around to me “later.”

I lay on the cot, staring at the white ceiling tiles.

Silent tears slid down my temples.

The door finally opened late that night.

It wasn’t Marco. It was his mother, Letizia Corvini.

An elegant, cold woman who cared about one thing and one thing only: family power.

“Samara, child.” She sat by my bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Alive,” I rasped.

Letizia’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows knitted together. “Don’t be dramatic. You are the future Mrs. Corvini.”

“Am I?” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Your son seems to have a different candidate in mind.”

A complex look passed over Letizia’s face.

“Marco is young. Easily distracted by a pretty face,” she said. “But the blood pact is signed. You are the lady of the Corvini house now.”

I looked at her, and I thought of the name I’d written on that pact.

“Letizia, if I told you a secret, would you help me?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of secret?”

“The bride’s name on the blood pact… it’s not Samara Romano.”

The color drained from her face. “What are you saying?”

“It’s Isabella Falcone,” I said, looking right into her eyes. “I changed it before I signed.”

Letizia sucked in a sharp breath.

She understood the implications instantly.

My family, the Romanos, held the keys to high society and legitimate business. The ports, the permits, the friendships of politicians.

But the Falcones… they were the Corvinis’ equals in the shadows. A true powerhouse.

An alliance with them wasn’t just a takeover.

It was a merger of titans. A super-empire powerful enough to rule all of Chicago.

For a woman like Letizia, that temptation was far greater than picking apart the bones of the Romano family, whose Don was freshly in the ground.

“You… why would you do such a thing?” Letizia’s voice was trembling.

But the glint in her eye wasn’t anger. It was ambition.

“Because I want to be free,” I said plainly. “And you want more power.”

Letizia was silent for a long time.

I could practically see the gears turning in her head, calculating the profits of this new development.

“Child,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps this was fate. You’ve done the Corvini family a great service. I’ll help you disappear.”

Seeing that triumphant look in her eyes, I had to laugh.

Then I remembered Isabella’s ruthless brother, the true heir to the Falcone fortune.

He had the family assets locked down tight.

In my past life, Isabella spent twenty years as nothing but a trophy.

The only reason she craved Marco was for his wallet—he was her ticket to endless shopping sprees.

And Letizia thought this marriage would get her a piece of the Falcone business? A fantasy.

But none of it was my problem anymore.

The next day, under Letizia’s arrangements, I left the clinic.

She provided a private jet and a bag full of cash.

“Where will you go?” she asked.

“Los Angeles,” I answered. “I’m going to open an art gallery.”

Letizia nodded. “Good. Art is a clean business.”

Before I left, I went back to the Romano estate one last time.

Marco wasn’t there. He’d taken Isabella to some high-society event.

I went into his bedroom and placed a copy of the blood pact on his bedside table.

Next to it, I put the one-way ticket to Sicily.

On top of the pact, I left a note.

Short and sharp, just like the knife he’d stuck in my back.

Marco,

You got the bride you always wanted. Now live with her.

As for me, I’m free. — E.