I thought last night was the worst it could get.

I was wrong.

The next morning, my phone exploded with calls.

"Elara, have you seen the news?" my friend Sarah's voice was panicked.

I opened my phone. A high-definition photo stared back at me.

Me, in a wine-stained white dress, standing miserably in the rain.

The headlines were sickening.

COSTELLO'S MISTRESS HUMILIATED AT ENGAGEMENT BASH.

FROM ART STUDIO TO BEDSHEETS: INSIDE THE DON'S AFFAIR.

My face was everywhere. Blown up, analyzed, shared.

The phone rang again.

"Miss Elara Vance? This is a reporter from the New York Herald. I'd like to ask about your relationship with Dante Costello—"

I hung up.

Another call.

"When did you and the Don get together?"

Hang up.

"Do you think Isabella Rossi's actions were justified?"

Hang up.

I turned off my phone and collapsed onto the sofa.

For five years, we'd been so careful. Never a single public touch.

Overnight, all of it was for nothing.

By the afternoon, the news had vanished.

Every article, every photo, gone as if it never existed.

I knew it was Dante’s work. He had the power to make anything that hurt his family disappear.

But another story quickly took its place.

COSTELLO DON AND FIANCéE'S STEAMY CAR KISS, WEDDING DATE APPROACHES.

The photo showed Dante pinning Isabella against the inside of a car in a passionate kiss.

Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her skirt hiked high.

His hand gripped her hip, pulling her hard against him.

They were devouring each other.

I stared at the picture, a knife twisting in my chest.

Yesterday, he said we were "strictly professional."

Today, he was all over Isabella.

Maybe I was just a toy from the beginning. He never cared about my feelings at all.

My phone rang. It was Antonio.

"Miss Elara, the Don wants to see you. Now."

I hesitated. "I've already resigned."

"This is not a request, Miss," Antonio's voice turned firm. "The car is already downstairs."

I knew I couldn't refuse.

In Dante's world, no one refused him.

Twenty minutes later, I was on the top floor of Costello Tower.

His private office. The place we first made love.

The faint scent of Isabella's perfume still lingered on the desk.

My stomach churned.

His secretary led me to the office door but stopped me just outside.

"Wait here, please," she said. "Miss Isabella is inside."

I stood outside the door.

It wasn't closed all the way.

Their voices carried, sharp and clear.

"That woman is still working for you. I don't like it." Isabella's voice was ice. "Dante, I want you to deal with her. Right now. In front of me."

"She's my best restorer." Dante's voice was flat.

"A restorer?" Isabella scoffed. "What is she restoring, Dante? Your art, or your body?"

A long silence.

"I'm not an idiot, Dante." Her voice was shaking with rage. "Last night, you made me and my family a laughingstock. And your solution? To throw the press a photo of us? You think I don't know what you're really thinking?"

Her voice turned venomous. "I see the way she looks at you. She loves you."

"That has nothing to do with me."

"Nothing to do with you?" Her voice was a shrill cry. "What about you, Dante? Do you have feelings for her? I want her out. I want her gone. Forever."

More silence. A long silence.

Then, his answer came, each word a shard of ice.

"She's an asset. Nothing more."

Something slammed into my heart.

Just then, the door opened.

Isabella walked out and saw me standing there.

A triumphant smile spread across her face.

"Oh, Elara, you're here." Her voice was sickeningly sweet. "Perfect timing. There's something I wanted to say to you."

She walked to the nearby drink station and deliberately knocked over a crystal glass.

CRASH. Shards scattered across the floor.

"Oops, how clumsy of me," Isabella faked a gasp. "But it's for the best. Some things are meant to be broken, aren't they?"

She bent down and grabbed the shard. Her hand flashed out, slicing open the back of mine.

Blood welled up instantly.

"Isabella!" I cried out.

"What? Does it hurt?" she sneered. "This is nothing. Do you have any idea how much it hurts to see your fiancé tangled up with another woman?"

I clutched my bleeding hand, glaring at her.

"There's nothing between me and Dante—"

"Nothing?" Isabella cut me off, her voice like nails on a chalkboard. "A poor girl who couldn't afford school, sponsored by the Don, who then willingly stays by his side for five years. Do you think anyone is stupid?"

She moved closer, her eyes filled with venom.

"Did you really think your pretty face and your body could make Dante fall in love with you? Wake up, Elara. You're just a toy he's tired of."

"Enough." Dante's voice came from the office.

He walked out, his gaze sweeping over us.

His brow furrowed when he saw the blood on my hand.

But his expression quickly returned to a cold mask.

"Isabella, go home. I have work to discuss."

"Work?" Isabella looked at him suspiciously, her tone dripping with displeasure. "Just get rid of her for good. Dante, choose. Her, or me."

Dante looked at me, then back at Isabella.

"She still has projects to finish," he said coldly. "I can't let personal feelings interfere with business."

"Personal feelings?" Isabella's voice turned dangerous. "You have personal feelings for her?"

"That's not what I meant," Dante clarified. "I was talking about your feelings, Isabella. Don't project."

Isabella’s eyes narrowed. "You can't fire her, or you won't?"

"I'm giving you three days. Get rid of this woman."

Isabella yanked her hand from Dante’s. The sweet, clinging fiancée was gone.

Clearly, the mafia princess had little patience for her husband-to-be's affairs.

She strode out on her high heels.

As she passed me, her purse brushed against my cut hand. Hard.

A sharp pain shot through me. I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

After she left, Dante closed the office door.

He stared at me, his eyes devoid of their old warmth.

"Antonio said you want to resign? I don't approve. But after what happened today, I'll give you two options."

He walked to the bar and poured himself a whiskey. He didn't pour one for me.

"Option one: you pay the Rossi family fifty million dollars for the damage to their name."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"Last night's scandal hurt both of our families' reputations," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Someone needs to take responsibility."

"I didn't do anything!"

"Your presence there was the mistake." He took a sip of his drink. "Option two: you apologize. Publicly. To Isabella. To my capos. You admit you seduced me. You swear you'll disappear. In return, I'll transfer you to my estate on the West Coast. You can continue your work there."

I felt my blood run cold.

Work?

He just wanted to lock me away forever.

He wanted me to apologize... to say everything between us was my fault...

"Are you insane, Dante?" My voice shook. "You want me to apologize? For what? For loving you? You were the one who—"

"Choose, Elara."

His eyes flickered for a second, but then they turned to ice again.

"And if I refuse?"

He put down his glass and walked toward me.

"Then you'll lose everything. Even if you leave me, I'll make sure you can never work in this country again." He stopped in front of me. "You know I have that power."

I stared at him, this man I thought I knew.

"I'll take the second option," I said through gritted teeth. "But this is the last time."

"Family meeting. Tomorrow, 3 PM."

...

The next day, I stood in the Costello family meeting room.

About a dozen men in expensive suits, the core of the family, sat around a long table.

Isabella sat to Dante's right, a victorious smile on her face.

"Gentlemen," Dante stood up. "We are gathered today to resolve an...unpleasant misunderstanding."

His eyes met mine. "Elara, please."

I took a deep breath and stood.

"I... I want to apologize for what happened," my voice was a whisper. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have been there."

"Louder," Isabella commanded. "Let everyone hear you."

I clenched my fists.

"I apologize for my actions," I raised my voice, the words tasting like ash. "I was the one who pursued Mr. Costello. I acted inappropriately. It was a mistake, and I couldn't control myself."

The room was silent.

A few of the old men exchanged glances. Some shook their heads, others sneered.

"I promise... I will never bother this family again," I forced the words out. "I will leave. And I will not be back."

"Good," one of the white-haired men nodded. "It's not a crime for a young person to make a mistake, as long as they learn from it."

I remembered two years ago, in this very room, Dante had shown them a Renaissance painting I'd restored.

"Elara is a genius," he'd said then. "She can bring dead art back to life."

The pride and admiration in his eyes back then felt like a cruel joke now.

"Meeting adjourned," Dante announced.

As everyone left, Isabella brushed past me. Her shoulder knocked into mine. She leaned in, her perfume thick and suffocating. "Good girl," she whispered. "Next time, cry. It makes the act more convincing."

Soon, only Dante and I were left.

"Does the cut still hurt?" he asked, gesturing to my bandaged hand.

I stared at him, unable to believe he had the nerve to ask.

"Are you pretending to care?"

"After you finish your projects, I'll give you a week of paid leave. Then you can pack for the West Coast estate." He ignored my question. "Get some rest."

"Thank you for your mercy, boss," I sneered. "Can I go now?"

He nodded.

I turned to leave, but stopped at the door.

"Dante," I said, looking back at him. "Do you remember the 'Sleeping Venus'? I spent three months restoring it, and you said it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen."

His expression tightened.

"I finally get it." A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "You never loved me. You loved what I could do. I fix your broken things. I bring them back from the dead."

I met his eyes. "The difference, Dante, is that a painting can't love you back. And it can't cause you trouble."

I didn't wait for his answer. I just walked out.

Back in my apartment, I started packing.

I threw everything related to Dante into a trash bag.

The books he gave me, the photos we took, even the files from my work projects.

I was cutting all ties with my past.

The next day, I stood at the grand opening of a new hotel funded by the Costello Group.

It was my last project before leaving New York. I was in charge of the restoration and display of all the hotel's art.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the host's voice boomed. "Please welcome our chief art consultant, Miss Elara Vance, to introduce the hotel's art collection."

I took a deep breath and walked onto the stage.

This was the peak of my career, and also my farewell.

"Thank you all," I adjusted the microphone. "Tonight, we are thrilled to present..."

But a sudden stir rippled through the crowd.

Guests started whispering, giving me strange looks.

Confused, I looked back at the large screen behind me.

My heart stopped.

It wasn't my presentation.

It was a slideshow.

High-definition photos.

Of me and Dante. In bed.

Me, on top of him, head thrown back in pleasure. His hands gripping my waist, his face a mask of pained ecstasy.

Another photo of me, kneeling before him.

My lips on his...

"Oh my god!"

"What is this?"

"That's disgusting!"

Gasps and murmurs erupted from the audience.

I stood frozen on the stage, feeling the entire world watching my most private moments.

When were these photos taken? I had no idea.

"Turn it off! Turn it off now!" I yelled at the tech crew.

But the photos kept changing.

Each one more explicit than the last.

I saw Isabella in the audience, covering her mouth with her hand to hide a smirk.

It was her. It had to be.

I stormed off the stage. Straight for her.

"You did this!" I grabbed her arm. "How did you get these photos?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Isabella said, feigning innocence. "Maybe you took them yourself? For blackmail?"

"You bitch!"

I raised my hand to slap her, but a strong hand caught my wrist.

It was Dante.

His face was a mask of cold fury.

He didn't look at me. He didn't look at Isabella. His eyes scanned the room, a predator assessing a threat.

"Enough," his voice was a low growl that cut through the silence. It wasn't directed at me. It was a command to the entire world.

He snapped his fingers, and two of his men instantly moved to the tech booth. The screen went black.

Then, his icy gaze finally landed on me. "You're done here."

"She did this! Dante, those photos—"

"Security," he cut me off, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Escort Miss Vance out. Now."

Two guards in black suits moved toward me.

"Don't touch me!" I ripped my arm from Dante's grasp. "I'll walk out myself!"

But as I turned, my heel twisted.

I lost my balance and tumbled down the stage steps.

The back of my head slammed against the marble floor.

The world spun.

My vision blurred.

I heard someone scream, but the sound grew distant.

Then, everything went black.

...

I woke up in a hospital.

My head was wrapped in bandages, and an IV was taped to my arm.

"You're awake?" A gentle male voice.

I turned my head. A young man with glasses was sitting by my bed.

Mark. The accountant from my company.

"Did you bring me here?" My voice was weak.

"Yeah," he nodded. "You fell down the steps and hit your head pretty hard. The doctor said you have a mild concussion."

I remembered everything that happened, and tears started to fall.

"Those photos... they're all over the internet now, aren't they?"

Mark's expression grew heavy.

"I'm so sorry, Elara."

I closed my eyes.

My career was over.

My reputation was ruined.

Everything was gone.

"Actually... I've always wanted to tell you," Mark said suddenly. "I think you're special. Not just for your talent, but for who you are."

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

"You don't have to bow down to anyone," he continued. "You deserve better."

He pulled a bouquet of white roses from behind his back.

"These are for you. I hope you feel better soon."

I looked at the flowers, a warmth spreading through my chest.

In five years, no one had ever been this kind to me.

"Mark..."

The door to my hospital room didn’t open. It splintered inward.

The bang echoed in the small space, and Mark and I both flinched.

Standing in the doorway, silhouetted like the devil himself, was Dante Costello.

He ignored me. His eyes locked on Mark.

Three words snarled from between his teeth. A death threat.

"Get. The. Fuck. Out."