Vincent visibly relaxed.

He sat back down in his chair, putting on that condescending air again.

Like he wasn't the one panicking a minute ago. Like I'd imagined it all.

"Isabella, you disappoint me."

I blinked. What?

"Tradition is tradition," he said, his tone turning serious. "The conditions of the marriage contract must be met. That's a rule passed down for generations. You're being emotional, Isabella. You don't have the composure of a Donna."

I almost laughed out loud.

Emotional?

I had busted my ass for him for ten years.

For ten years, I put away my paintbrushes, gave up my art, turned down a chance to study at the Louvre.

I buried the artist inside me and became a shark in the boardroom. All because he said his wife needed a sharp mind, not a foolish heart.

And now he was calling me emotional?

"Vincent, I just thought…"

"Thought what?" he cut me off, standing up. His tone softened a little. "Alright, Isabella, I know you're eager to marry me. I know our mothers arranged this years ago. But rules are rules…"

"My mother's memorial is important to me," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "If I could be your wife on that day, it would mean everything."

"Enough." Vincent walked to the window, his back to me. "The dead are dead. The living have business to attend to. You should be focused on how to finish the job."

I stared at his back, feeling something burn in my chest.

"The job?"

"Of course, the job." He turned, looking at me like it was obvious. "You think marriage is a game? The position of Donna requires real strength and intelligence. And right now, you don't measure up."

Not measuring up.

I remembered what Marco said—they'd gotten Ava ready to "compete."

So in Vincent's eyes, this ten-year engagement wasn't about love. It was a tryout.

And I wasn't even the only one auditioning.

"Vincent, you…"

"Oh, Vincent!"

A syrupy voice cut me off.

The study door opened and a girl in a black silk nightgown ran in.

Her long hair was loose on her shoulders, her face sleepy and soft. She was only wearing slippers.

Ava.

She jumped into Vincent's arms, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I was looking all over for you," she cooed, nuzzling his chest. "I woke up and you were gone. Why weren't you in bed?"

Vincent’s face instantly softened. His hand went to her waist, a natural, easy motion.

"I was handling something," he murmured, his voice full of a tenderness I'd never heard before. "Why didn't you sleep in?"

"I can't sleep when you're not there," Ava said, tilting her head up to kiss his chin.

I just stood there. A third wheel. An outsider.

This was Vincent Corleone. The same man who was just lecturing me about "family tradition."

He was holding the daughter of the woman who drove my mother to her death, acting like this right in front of me, and I was supposed to just stand there and watch?

"Vincent," my voice was colder than I expected. "We're still talking."

Ava finally seemed to notice me. She turned her head, a perfect smile on her face.

"Oh, Isabella," she said, her voice sickly sweet. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here."

I suddenly remembered the territory dispute three months ago.

The Russians tried to take our docks in Brooklyn. Talks broke down, guns came out.

Ava was there. Afterward, she ran into Vincent's arms, face covered in blood, sobbing that my men hadn't protected her and she'd been cut by flying glass.

Vincent nearly took my head of security's head off and forced me to apologize to her. On my knees.

But looking at her now, her skin was flawless. Perfect. Not a single mark.

Where was the scar?

If it was really glass, how could the wounds have healed so perfectly, without a single mark?

Unless the wounds were self-inflicted. A perfect little show for her perfect hero.

"Ava, your face healed nicely," I said, staring at her. "Can't even tell you were ever hurt."

Her smile froze for a second, then went right back to innocent.

"Yes, Vincent found the best doctor for me," she said, hugging his arm tighter. "He takes such good care of me."

Vincent shot me a smug look, like he was showing off a prize.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I reached down and picked up the torn pieces of the audit report, ready to show them the truth.

To let Vincent see how his little "accident" had failed.

To let him know I'd won, and he had to marry me.

"Vincent, actually, I was just…"

"Don't," Ava suddenly rushed over, grabbing my hand, her eyes welling up with tears. "Isabella, please, don't argue with Vincent anymore."

"What?"

Her eyes were full of tears, looking pitiful and weak.

"Vincent was shot," she whispered, her voice cracking. "He took a bullet for me. The doctor said any serious stress could reopen the wound. He could bleed out."

Took a bullet?

My heart stopped.

"When?" I rushed toward Vincent. "You're hurt?"

My hands went to his shirt, trying to check for a wound.

Vincent flinched, trying to push me away, but the movement was stiff. He'd clearly pulled something.

"Three days ago," Vincent said, turning his head away. His voice was cold. "There was a situation at the docks."

"The Russians were crazier than we thought," Ava said, clinging to Vincent's side, her voice laced with a practiced fear. "They just started shooting. Vincent, to protect me…"

She traced a finger over his chest.

"The bullet almost hit my heart. But Vincent jumped in front of me, shielded me with his own body. He's my hero."

I looked at Vincent, waiting for him to deny it, to explain.

He said nothing. Like taking a bullet for her was the most natural thing in the world.

A sharp pain shot through my chest.

I remembered Mexico, three years ago. A dangerous deal.

The other party was a notorious cartel, but they controlled the black market for art in Central America.

Before I left, I went to Vincent to ask for backup.

"It's too dangerous," I'd said. "I need more men."

"This is your test, Isabella," Vincent had said, looking troubled. "The family can't make an exception for you. If you can't handle this, how can you be the Donna?"

"But Vincent…"

"Rules are rules," he cut me off. "You can walk away from the deal, but you can't ask the family to bend the rules."

I took a bullet during that negotiation to close the deal.

When I woke up, Vincent was by my bedside, looking exhausted. The nurses said he'd been there for days.

I thought he was worried. I thought he loved me.

I thought he only stayed away because the family made him.

So I forgave him.

What was this, then?

"Remember Mexico?" I demanded, my voice shaking with rage. "You left me to bleed in Mexico and called it a test. But you take a bullet for her, and that's just business?"

Vincent's face darkened. "It's different."

"How is it different?!" I finally screamed. "Because she's your so-called 'savior'?"

"What else?" Vincent's reply was ice. "Isabella, I owe Ava my life. Thirteen years ago, at your family's estate, if she hadn't pulled me out of that pool, I'd be dead. I'll spend my entire life repaying that debt. I appreciate what you do for the family, but it doesn't compare to saving my life."

My world shattered.

Hilarious.

It was just so damn hilarious.

Thirteen years ago, on a summer afternoon, the girl who jumped into the pool, who dragged his drowning ass to the side, who cried while giving him CPR… that was me.

Ava just stood there, screaming her head off.

Afterward, she was the one who ran to everyone, crying about how brave she'd been, how she'd saved Vincent.

I was so traumatized I came down with a fever and was out for three days, missing my chance to set the record straight.

So that was it. The root of this ten-year joke.

All his favoritism, all his protection, it was all for a stolen moment of heroism.

"The person who saved you that day, Vincent," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "It wasn't her."

"It was me."

Vincent's eyes turned cold and disappointed, like he was looking at a lunatic. "Isabella, I know you're jealous. But you don't get to rewrite history and slander a hero."

"I'm not!" I said desperately. "That day, she was wearing a red dress, and I was in…"

"Enough!" Vincent snapped, his eyes full of disgust. "I don't want to hear you spin any more lies to hurt Ava. When did you become this kind of woman, so willing to do anything to win?"

The disgust in his eyes hurt more than any weapon.

Just then, Ava, who'd been "trembling" in Vincent's arms, looked up at me, her eyes wet with tears.

"Isabella, sister, please, stop…" she said weakly, her voice was weak, already starting to break. “I know you hate me, but you can’t deny the truth… I saved Vincent’s life. All our lives, I’ve let you have everything—the clothes, the awards, the jewelry. But not him. I’m not giving up Vincent.”

As she spoke, she pulled away from Vincent and walked toward me, reaching for my hand like she was about to beg.

“If you think this is my fault, then hit me! Go on!”

The second she was close, something in her eyes changed. They went cold. Vicious.

Where Vincent couldn’t see, her fingers dug into my arm.

Pain shot through me. I tried to pull away, but she suddenly threw herself backward, slamming her body hard against the sharp corner of the desk.

"Ahhh—!"

A bloodcurdling scream echoed through the study.

It happened so fast I couldn't even react.

Ava was already on the floor, clutching her arm, blood quickly soaking through her sleeve.

I was frozen, my hand still in the position she had pulled it into.

Vincent's eyes widened. He lunged forward and shoved me back, hard.

"Isabella!" he roared, his voice loud enough to shake the room. "Are you crazy?! What the hell are you doing?!"

He gently scooped Ava up, his eyes going from panicked to murderous as he looked at her bleeding arm.

He looked up, his gaze locked on me.

"I can't believe you. You're so twisted you'd actually attack her."

I looked at the "trembling" woman in his arms, the one with a triumphant glint in her eyes. I looked at the undisguised hatred and disappointment on his face. And I started to laugh.

I laughed so hard the tears streamed down my face.

So, ten years of love, ten years of work, and in his eyes, I was just a "twisted" woman being "jealous."

"You are a blind, pathetic fool, Vincent Corleone." I laughed, the sound wet and broken. The calm in my own voice was terrifying.

Vincent's voice trembled with rage. He held Ava tighter. "Apologize to Ava. Now!"

Apologize?

I looked around the lavish study. The paintings on the wall were ones I'd acquired for him. The papers on his desk were the result of my all-nighters.

Everything in here was once proof of my love. Now it was just evidence of my stupidity.

I walked slowly toward the fireplace and picked up the shredded pieces of my audit report.

"Isabella, what do you think you're doing?" Vincent watched me, wary.

"Nothing." I stood before the fire, watching the flames dance, and dropped the scraps of paper in, one by one. "Just cleaning up some… trash."

The paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash in the fire.

That was my youth. My ten years of hard work.

And the last of my love for him.

When the last piece was gone, I turned around and met his unbelieving stare.

"Vincent Corleone. As of this moment, I, Isabella Rossi, officially break our engagement."

My voice wasn't loud, but it echoed in every corner of the room.

"You can save your precious title of Donna for the 'brave' hero in your arms. I wish you both… a long and happy life together."

Vincent was stunned. He'd clearly never imagined I would say that. In his world, I was the desperate psycho who would do anything to marry him. The girl who would always come running back.

He looked at me, his shock turning to a condescending sneer.

"Break the engagement?" He scoffed, like it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard. "Isabella, stop playing these games. It's childish."

He patted Ava's back soothingly, then spoke to me with the tone of a king granting a pardon. "I know you're upset today. I'll let it slide. Now go to your room. Without me, you are nothing," he said, his voice dropping to a low threat. "Without my family, the Rossi name is dirt. Go to your room. And when you’re ready to beg, you can come and apologize to Ava."

He was so sure I wouldn't leave him.

He thought he was my whole world.

He thought that after ten years, no matter what he did, all he had to do was snap his fingers and I'd come crawling back.

I turned and walked to the door, without looking back.

Behind me, I heard Vincent’s dismissive voice.

"Let's go, Ava. Let her cool off."