For the next three days, Vincenzo didn't come back.

I wasn't idle, either.

As a chief financial advisor, I had handled countless complex asset liquidations. This time, it was my own.

I packed all my personal documents and belongings, shipping them secretly through my private channels to a secure vault in Zurich.

Leaning back on the sofa, I stared at the wedding photo of Vincenzo and me on the wall, my eyes filled with cold tears.

My phone buzzed, a text message pulling me back to the present.

I opened it. It was a picture from Chloe.

No words, just a high-definition selfie.

In the photo, Chloe was wearing an ivory Italian gown, made from Vincenzo's favorite fabric.

But what stung my eyes was the emerald necklace resting on her collarbone.

It was the De Luca family heirloom, passed down through generations, to be worn only by the reigning Donna.

When we got married, I had wanted to wear that necklace.

But Vincenzo had locked it away in a UBS vault, whispering in my ear, "Elara, on our tenth anniversary, I will put this on you myself. Don't worry, you are the only woman worthy of its weight."

Now, those heavy green gems rested on another woman's collarbone, their mocking gleam caught in the camera's flash.

I looked back at my wedding photo with Vincenzo and felt that the eight years I had dedicated to our relationship were nothing but a colossal joke.

My phone buzzed again. Another message from Chloe.

[Chloe: Elara, the ceremony is tomorrow. The Don said that considering Marco's dying wish and your feelings, it would be best for everyone's dignity if you didn't attend. We can get together privately after everything has settled.]

What a perfect victim. Using a dying man to pressure the living, cloaking her greed in the name of "dignity."

I laughed coldly and replied with a single word. "Congratulations."

After sending it, I blocked her number and made a call to a professional painting company.

Everything in this apartment was a product of my love and hard work. Since I was leaving, there was no reason for any of it to remain.

The next day, the ceremony at the De Luca estate was grand and solemn.

Of course, I didn't go.

I found out later that the guests were all friends and relatives of the Rossi family.

Vincenzo kept searching for me in the crowd, but from the beginning of the ceremony to the end, I was nowhere to be seen.

After the ceremony, Vincenzo wanted to return to our apartment. Chloe wanted to go with him, saying she wanted to thank me in person for my blessing.

Vincenzo had no reason to refuse. He believed he and Chloe were innocent and had nothing to hide.

But when Vincenzo opened the door, he froze as if struck by lightning.

The luxurious Italian decor of the penthouse was gone.

The walls, the ceiling, the expensive marble floors, even the window frames, were all coated in a thick layer of light-absorbing, industrial matte black paint.

Except for a few boxes in the center of the living room containing Vincenzo's personal belongings, our home was completely empty.

As Chloe let out a fake gasp, Vincenzo walked stiffly into the living room and, with a trembling hand, picked up the file folder from the top of the boxes.

He ripped it open. Two documents slid out.

One was the divorce agreement I had signed. The other was the surgical report for my ectopic pregnancy.