Serena POV

I hung up the phone.

There was a calm in my heart as profound and silent as a sworn vendetta. The well of my tears had long run dry.

I walked back to the kitchen and stared at the empty cake box on the counter. The ghost of its sweetness had been scraped away, leaving nothing but a sticky, ruined smear—the collateral damage of his rush to save someone else.

I picked up my encrypted phone and retreated into the bedroom. Reaching up, I pulled my black canvas go-bag from the top shelf of the closet and began to pack in the encroaching silence.

It was not until the following afternoon that the private elevator chimed again.

Dominic stepped into the penthouse, already loosening his dark silk tie. A rare, tense shadow of guilt flickered across the sharp angles of his jaw.

"I am sorry I forgot your birthday," he said. He swallowed, the granular friction of his vocal cords visible along the hard line of his jaw.

Closing the distance between us, he pulled a set of heavy keys from his pocket and tossed them onto the glass coffee table. They landed with a sharp, dismissive clatter that echoed in the cavernous room.

"I bought you a custom, bulletproof armored SUV. Top of the line," he stated. "A compensatory gift."

I stared at the keys, making no move toward them.

"Elena reminded me this morning," Dominic continued, unbuttoning his cuffs with casual precision. "She helped select the vehicle. It is a good color."

He pulled out his encrypted burner phone and stepped closer, invading my space.

"Look," he murmured, holding the bright screen toward me. "She chose a custom pink finish."

I dropped my gaze to the screen. It was not a picture of the car. It was a picture of Elena.

She was sitting in the driver's seat, beaming, her blonde hair a perfect, unruffled halo.

My eyes caught the faint grid of an open photo gallery at the bottom of his screen.

"Her phone died," Dominic explained casually, swiping to the next photo. "She used my secure device to take some pictures of the interior while we were inside."

Without a word, I reached out and plucked the heavy phone from his hand. He did not resist.

I began to scroll.

There were one hundred and twenty selfies of Elena. There were exactly three photos of the armored SUV.

A cold, hollow numbness spread through my limbs, making my hands feel as if they belonged to someone else.

Dominic despised digital footprints. He was pathologically paranoid about operational security. There were no photos of me on his phone. He did not even save my contact information.

He had once told me he memorized my number so no trace of it would ever exist, claiming it was the ultimate mark of a Don's protection.

Acting on a sudden, masochistic impulse, I backed out of the gallery and tapped open his encrypted messaging app.

Elena's number was pinned at the top. She was not a number; she was saved under the single, cryptic initial E. It was a secure alias, but the profile picture—a candid, brightly lit shot of her smiling—left no doubt.

I stared at the screen. It mocked me in glaring white text against the dark interface.

Dominic chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that seemed to deaden the air in the room. His dark eyes flashed with an arrogant amusement.

"Daring to question my authority and check up on me, Serena?" he asked. His tone was laced with dark humor, but the weight of his dominance was unmistakable.

Before I could reply, a new message notification dropped down. It was from the pinned contact.

"Elena: The pink looks so much better on me. You always play favorites with her. I want this car, Dom. Tell her to wait."

In that instant, I lost all interest in the toxic politics of his phone.

I handed the device back to him. My hand was perfectly, terrifyingly steady.

Dominic glanced down at the screen. A faint, exasperated sigh escaped his lips.

His thumbs moved in quick, practiced strokes.

"Dominic: The front-business funds are tied up in the port deal. I owe you a vehicle for now."

Locking the phone, he slid it back into his pocket. He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze dropping away from mine for a brief, telling second.

"There is a minor security threat near her apartment," Dominic stated, his voice shifting seamlessly back into the cold, authoritative tone of the Boss. "It is best we give the armored SUV to her first. Until the threat is neutralized."

He was giving her my car. The compensatory gift—the apology for forgetting my existence—was already being redirected to the woman who had reminded him to buy it in the first place. I looked at the keys on the glass table, still lying where he had tossed them, and I did not pick them up. They were not mine. They never had been. And neither was the man who had just handed them to me as an afterthought.

Serena POV

I stared at him, but my mind had unmoored itself, drifting back to a night two years ago.

We were sitting in a dark, private theater, the entire cavernous venue rented for our date. Halfway through the film, his phone vibrated. Elena was having a trivial dispute with a neighbor.

Without a word, Dominic had abandoned me in that empty theater.

Sitting alone in the dark that night, I had realized a simple, devastating truth: it is not difficult to surrender something that was never truly yours to begin with.

Now, the memory receded, and I looked at the man before me.

"You can give her the car," I said calmly.

Dominic paused, the tension in his broad shoulders easing by a fraction.

"Whatever the Don commands, I obey," I added. My voice was flat and without echo.

Dominic stepped forward and cupped my cheek. His thumb brushed over my cheekbone—a gesture of ownership, not affection.

"Good girl," he murmured. "You understand your place. Elena is foolish, but it is my sworn duty to protect her. It is necessary."

I did not lean into his touch. I simply stared at his chest.

It was not about understanding Omertà. I just no longer cared.

"Elena has invited us to dine at the new Family-controlled restaurant," Dominic informed me. He dropped his hand and turned toward the door. "Be ready. We leave in ten minutes."

The restaurant was exclusive, its dimly lit interior heavy with the scent of expensive cigars and rich food.

I despised the smell. But I hated the cloying gardenia perfume Elena wore even more, a constant, sweet attempt to mask the faintly metallic scent of the underworld that clung to all of us.

We sat at a private, velvet-lined booth. Elena sat across from us, smiling brightly, her perfume a suffocating presence in the narrow space.

When the waiter arrived, Dominic opened his mouth, intending to order my usual bland meal.

"I will have the spicy seafood arrabbiata," I interrupted smoothly. "And a classic Aperol Spritz. We will not be sharing."

Dominic frowned, the sharp lines of his face hardening.

"Why are you ordering that?" he questioned, his tone laced with confusion. "You do not eat spice."

"I have always loved it," I replied evenly, meeting his gaze. "You never noticed."

Dominic's jaw tightened, but he did not argue in front of his men.

"I will have a cold, fruity cocktail to match Serena!" Elena chimed in, clapping her hands together like a child.

Dominic's face darkened. He turned a furious glare on Elena.

"Absolutely not," he reprimanded sharply. "You know your health is fragile. You cannot handle ice."

He looked up at the waiter and dismissed her request with a wave. "Bring her a warm chamomile tea."

Instead of shrinking, Elena giggled. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands.

"With the Don protecting me, I am not afraid of a little stomach pain," she flirted brazenly.

I watched the exchange in silence. I felt nothing, only a strange, hollow detachment.

A memory flickered—three years ago, a severe fever. Dominic had stayed awake for two days, meticulously wiping my forehead, forcing me to drink water. He had shown a raw, desperate vulnerability only I was allowed to witness.

But ever since Elena had fully inserted herself into our lives, his fierce protective instincts had shifted entirely to her.

I sat there, utterly muted, an expendable Associate watching the Boss and his precious ward engage in their twisted banter. I did not belong at this table.

A moment later, a loyal Soldier approached our booth. He carried a tall, vintage crystal glass filled with a dark, blood-red liquid. Two black straws rested inside.

"Compliments of the house," the Soldier announced, bowing his head. "The Boss and Queen anniversary drink. To celebrate the establishment's first successful year."

The soldier's words hung in the air. Boss and Queen. He was looking at Dominic and Elena when he said it—not at me. I was sitting right there, the Don's woman of five years, and a loyal soldier had just addressed another woman as his Queen. And Dominic did not correct him. He did not even seem to notice. The message was clear: even his men knew who truly held the throne.