Dante paced restlessly outside the emergency room, his agitation radiating off him like heat.

His voice cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving.

"Isabella! Is this really the time for an argument? We were together for six years, and Carina is your goddamn cousin! Of course I remember your blood type."

I remained silent, my body threatening to collapse at any moment.

I had just had an abortion. I was still bleeding.

And here he was, demanding my blood for his mistress.

The physical toll of the procedure was immense, and the Rh-negative bloodline of the Falcone family was rare.

Donating blood would have been dangerous even if I were healthy.

Besides, why should I risk my life for a man like him?

Hadn't Dante considered the consequences when he brought his mistress onto Falcone territory?

Everyone knew we were engaged. The union of Falcone and Moretti was meant to reshape New York City's underworld.

Yet he had dragged the honor of both our families through the mud for my cousin.

"I just had an abortion," I said calmly.

"I can't donate blood. Find someone else."

Dante's anger flared, his words scorching.

"Isabella! You always claimed to love me. Now I'm just asking for a little blood, and you're using an abortion as an excuse? This is who you really are. You'd rather let Carina die than lift a finger. I can't believe I ever loved someone so cold-hearted."

His accusation landed like a punch.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he’d never loved me.

Because if he had, he wouldn't have faked an illness to cheat on me.

He wouldn't have ignored the exhaustion etched on my face and tried to force me to donate blood for his mistress.

And he certainly wouldn't have been sleeping with my cousin.

A harsh alarm from a nearby monitor shattered the tense standoff.

The ER doctors rushed Carina into surgery.

In a flash of frustration, Dante hoisted me over his shoulder and hauled me toward the blood donation area like a conquest.

"Isabella, like it or not, I'll owe you for this," he said gruffly.

"Damn it, I'll even marry you on the original date if that's what it takes."

This was the future Don of the Moretti family—cold, reckless, and willing to do anything to get what he wanted.

I stopped resisting.

Perhaps this was my way of settling an old debt.

Once, he had risked his life to save me during an ambush by a rival family.

Now, this would settle the score.

As the crimson blood flowed into the collection bag, a chill seeped into the marrow of my bones.

After the donation, Dante rushed after the nurse toward the operating room without a single glance in my direction.

As his back disappeared down the hall, I whispered to the empty space, "Now, we're even, Dante."

Later, I woke up in a hospital bed, exhaustion pressing down on me like a lead blanket.

The doctor's voice cut through the haze.

"You can't donate again for at least six months," the doctor stated gravely. "If you try, it could kill you."

I nodded weakly, a faint, detached smile on my lips.

After he left, I checked my phone.

A dozen missed calls from the hospital to Dante's emergency contact number.

Not one had been answered.

Instead, there was a single text message from him.

Dante: Isabella, stop being so fucking dramatic. Know your place.

I stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity.

The last flicker of warmth I held for him froze solid in that moment.

I couldn't connect the man who had once loved me with the venom in those words.

I didn't reply. I spent the following days recovering in silence.

When I finally felt strong enough, I dragged myself to the hospital garden, hoping to soak in some sun and melt the frost inside me.

Instead, my path was blocked by a group of Dante's men.

Each of them carried bouquets and fruit baskets. For a brief, foolish moment, I thought they were for me.

I turned to leave, but they blocked my path, their taunts like sharp jabs.

"Well, look who it is. The great Falcone Principessa. Dante's with his new girl, and you're still here playing the victim? Pathetic."

"Isn't this a bit much? Acting so weak over a little blood. What a drama queen."

"Guess even a Principessa can't keep her man. Getting played by your own cousin. Fucking priceless."

Their words stung, but I steadied myself and glared back at them.

"Don't forget that the Falcone name is worth more than anything the Morettis can offer.

Keep talking, and you'll drag Dante's name right down into the mud with you."

They froze, momentarily taken aback.

Before they could retort, Dante emerged from the stairwell.

His gaze landed on me, his brow furrowed in frustration.

"Isabella, really? You have to pick a fight with my men?"

His tone grew colder, each word suffocating.

"I already said I'd marry you. What the hell more do you want? Stop faking sick to spy on me. Pull this shit after we're married, and it’ll be bad for both our families."

"Don't trouble yourself. I don't need a pity marriage for the sake of our families."

For six years, I gave him his freedom.

When he wanted to drink, I’d sit with him in silence, never rushing him.

If my presence was inconvenient, I would leave, waiting for his call to pick me up without complaint.

When he was drunk, I cared for him with endless patience.

When he wanted to go on "business trips" with his friends—chasing thrills and partying all night—I planned their itineraries, bought their tickets, and mapped their routes.

I even refused when he offered to let me check his phone.

I loved him, but I was terrified my status would suffocate him, so I never tried to control him.

I was determined not to repeat my mother's mistakes, who had pushed my father away with her suffocating expectations.

I thought I had managed our relationship perfectly, that we had found a stable, harmonious balance.

Before his betrayal, we were still like a couple in the first flush of love.

He craved me, his hunger for me seemingly endless.

But now I saw the truth—he loved me, yes. But he also loved the thrill of any woman who wasn't me, incapable of resisting temptation.

Was that why he faked his illness? For a new kind of thrill? He'd even had the tattoo of my name on his chest covered with Carina's.

Our eyes met, but there wasn't a trace of love in his.

The questions burning on my tongue died in my throat, leaving only silence.

Dante frowned under my intense gaze.

He snatched the bouquets from his men and shoved them into my arms.

"Here," he grunted, thrusting them at me. "Take them. Just take the goddamn flowers and leave."

In his eyes, I was still that simple girl, easily satisfied with the smallest gesture.

He never considered that I was the Principessa of the Falcone family, a woman who had seen the world.

My contentment had never been about the gifts—it was because I loved him.

He couldn't comprehend that when I said I wouldn't marry him, I meant it.

I handed the flowers back to his men.

"These are for Carina. It's not appropriate for me to accept them. I donated that blood of my own free will. You don't need to force yourself to marry me."

For a moment, Dante's expression faltered.

A flicker of panic crossed his face.

"Isabella… Carina and I… it's nothing. I still love you."

I smiled faintly.

"Alright. You go take care of my dear cousin. I'll handle my discharge papers. Go on with your business."

My words dug into him.

He stiffened, then turned his head away, hiding his discomfort.

His men wasted no time, slinging their arms around his shoulders and steering him away.

"Come on, Dante, Carina's waiting. She almost died for you—unlike some people who give a little blood and think it buys them a wedding. She'll get jealous if you're not back soon. Besides, we've got some new talent lined up for you tonight!"

"Isabella's just putting on an act. She'll come crawling back. Women are all the same. You're too soft on her, boss."

Their words were meant to hurt, but I felt nothing.

Only a cold numbness, as if I were standing on the frozen Hudson River in the dead of winter, cut off from all warmth forever.

With Dante gone, I called the only housekeeper I trusted at the penthouse to help me pack.

One by one, the custom gowns, the photo albums, the decorations—all of it disappeared.

And with them, the fragile dream of a shared future peeled away, revealing the brutal truth.

The housekeeper stared at the bare, sterile apartment and hesitated.

"Principessa Isabella, all of this was for the wedding. Are you really giving up on it?"

"Yes," I replied, my voice calm and detached.

"The groom is dead," I said, my voice flat. "This is all for a funeral."

At my words, her hands trembled, and she dared not say more, carefully disposing of the wedding photos and the Moretti family engagement ring.

Once the apartment was stripped bare, I stood at the threshold with my suitcase.

I looked at the once-familiar door and, from my phone, deleted my fingerprint and iris data from the lock.

From this moment on, this was no longer my home.