I started packing early, sorting through years of belongings and memories with a level of clarity that felt almost clinical.

Although Dante and I slept in separate rooms, we shared the same walk-in closet. For years, it had been part of my daily routine to prepare everything for him. I knew exactly how he liked his shirts pressed, where he preferred his cufflinks placed, and which tray he expected to find his signet ring on when he left in the morning.

It had become second nature.

A quiet ritual I performed to maintain the fragile peace of our distant marriage.

Now it was time to let it all go.

As I folded my clothes into suitcases, my attention drifted to a collection of gifts I had given Dante over the years. Birthday presents. Anniversary gifts. Holiday surprises.

Every single one remained untouched.

Most were still wrapped exactly as I had given them.

They sat forgotten in the back of the closet like meaningless objects he had never cared enough to open.

A dull ache spread through my chest.

I remembered how carefully I had chosen each gift, how much thought and effort I had poured into them, foolishly hoping they might show him how deeply I wanted to be a good wife.

In the end, none of it had mattered.

Without another thought, I gathered them together and placed them into a donation box.

Perhaps someone else would appreciate them.

Someone who actually wanted them.

At the same time, I left behind everything Dante had ever bought for me.

The jewelry.

The designer handbags.

The expensive clothes.

Every gift he had used to smooth over another disappointment or silence another argument remained exactly where it was.

I packed only the things I had purchased myself with money earned from selling my artwork.

Those were the only things that truly belonged to me.

Once the donation boxes were packed, I loaded them into my car and headed toward the orphanage where I had grown up.

The old Catholic building still stood on the same street in Federal Hill.

Its stone steps had been worn smooth by decades of children running up and down them.

Every Family in Providence respected the orphanage as neutral ground under the old code.

Even the Valentes left it untouched.

On the way there, I stopped at a supermarket and bought snacks for the children.

I would be leaving soon.

But they would always remain close to my heart.

The moment I stepped inside, I was greeted by the woman who had raised me with endless patience and kindness.

The woman I simply called Sister.

She welcomed me with open arms.

We settled into a quiet corner of the common room, talking comfortably while children's laughter drifted through the hallway in the distance.

For a while, we chatted about ordinary things.

Then I finally gathered the courage to tell her the truth.

"I'm going to Italy for further studies."

The words left my mouth accompanied by a small smile.

Her entire face brightened.

"Oh, Seraphina!" she exclaimed warmly, squeezing my hands. "I always knew you were meant for great things. You deserve every happiness waiting for you."

Emotion tightened my throat.

Her encouragement felt like a soothing balm over wounds I hadn't realized were still bleeding.

Then I forced myself to continue.

"I'm also... divorcing Dante."

For a brief moment, concern crossed her face.

She folded her hands together in her lap and became very still.

Not judgmental.

Not surprised.

Just waiting.

Listening.

She knew how close I had always been to Dante's mother, and perhaps she had once hoped that marriage would finally give me the family I had spent my entire life searching for.

But as I explained everything, her expression gradually softened.

Finally, she nodded.

"Sometimes letting go is the bravest thing a person can do."

Her voice was gentle as she patted my hand.

"You have to follow your own path, Seraphina."

I felt tears threaten to rise.

Instead, I smiled and hugged her tightly.

"Thank you."

By the time I left the orphanage, evening had begun settling over the city.

I drove back toward the Valente estate slowly, enjoying the quiet roads.

Normally, I would have been watching the clock anxiously.

Dinner was important to Dante.

For years, I had rushed home whenever possible because I knew how irritated he became if I was late.

Yet as I drove that evening, I felt none of that urgency.

No pressure.

No anxiety.

Only distance.

Thinking back, his obsession with shared meals had always confused me.

Breakfast and dinner.

Every day.

No excuses.

Why had it mattered so much to him?

There had never been a real marriage between us.

We slept separately.

Lived separately.

Loved separately.

Sometimes I wondered whether those meals had merely been part of a performance.

A way to convince the household staff that the arrangement worked.

That the blood-bound marriage his mother had orchestrated resembled something real.

Even then, I still assumed it was simply one of Dante's strange habits.

That assumption vanished the moment I walked into the manor.

An unexpected scene greeted me in the living room.

Dante's younger sister, Ginevra, and Camille sat surrounded by luxury shopping bags, designer boxes, and discarded tissue paper scattered across the furniture like confetti after a celebration.

Ginevra glanced up immediately.

"Oh, you're finally home, Seraphina."

Her tone was as arrogant as ever.

"We're starving. The chef couldn't come today, so go make dinner."

The words landed exactly where they always did.

A reminder of the role I had played in this family.

Useful.

Convenient.

Replaceable.

I pressed my thumb against the familiar callus on my middle finger and glanced toward Camille.

She deliberately avoided my eyes, choosing instead to fuss over a brand-new handbag.

At that moment, Dante emerged from the hallway.

"Forget cooking tonight," he said casually. "Let's just eat out."

Then his attention shifted instantly to Camille.

His voice softened.

"What do you feel like eating?"

Camille's eyes lit up.

"I want steak," she said eagerly, wrapping both hands around his arm. "Can we go to our favorite place? The one we used to go to in college?"

Without hesitation, Dante nodded and reached for his car keys.

Watching how naturally they fit together, how comfortable they seemed in each other's presence, I quietly tried to slip away.

Unfortunately, Dante noticed.

"Come with us."

I paused.

"No thanks. I'm not hungry."

His expression darkened immediately.

"That wasn't a question, Seraphina."

I released a slow breath.

The familiar weight of his authority settled over the room.

"Fine."

The ride there was exactly as uncomfortable as I expected.

Dante and Camille occupied the front seats, laughing together and reminiscing about old memories.

Meanwhile, Ginevra sat beside me in the back, carefully positioning herself as far away from me as possible.

She treated me like a stranger.

Or perhaps something worse.

The two women chatted effortlessly while I remained silent, staring out the window as Providence blurred past.

Neon signs.

Streetlights.

Historic streets giving way to the waterfront district that Family money had transformed over the years.

When we finally arrived at the restaurant, a bitter realization settled over me.

I recognized the place immediately.

It was the steakhouse Dante had brought me to countless times throughout our marriage.

The restaurant I had foolishly assumed belonged to us.

The hostess recognized him the moment he entered and guided us toward his usual table without needing to ask.

And suddenly, everything became painfully clear.

This had never been our place.

It had always been theirs.

Just like so many things I once believed belonged to us.

In the end, almost every cherished memory I thought we had built together had started with Camille long before I ever arrived.

As soon as we entered the restaurant, one of the waiters recognized us and greeted us with a polished smile.

"Mr. and Mrs. Valente," he said warmly. "It's been a while since we've seen the two of you together."

The moment the words left his mouth, I noticed Camille's expression stiffen.

Without hesitation, she slipped her arm through Dante's, clinging to him possessively, as though staking her claim in front of everyone present.

The gesture clearly confused the waiter, but Dante either didn't notice or chose not to.

"Table for four," he said casually.

"Of course. Right this way."

The waiter led us through the restaurant toward one of the familiar tables tucked away in the back, beyond the private dining rooms where business was conducted behind closed doors and never discussed in daylight.

What none of them knew was that the restaurant itself carried a different meaning for me.

It had always been one of Dante's favorite places because the steaks were prepared tableside, allowing guests to cook them themselves if they wished.

For years, he had insisted that I be the one to do it.

What he never mentioned was that it had once been something he and Camille did together.

As the tabletop grill heated up, Ginevra grabbed the tongs with a smug smile.

"I'm actually pretty good at this," she announced. "I just don't enjoy cooking unless I have to. Watch and learn."

She flipped the steak with practiced confidence, earning an impressive hiss as the meat met the hot surface.

For a while, everything seemed perfectly normal.

Then the oil began dripping from the steak.

A few seconds later, flames suddenly surged upward from the grill.

Camille gasped.

Startled, she jerked backward and accidentally knocked the grill over.

Hot embers scattered in every direction.

Both Camille and I were sitting closest to the grill.

Ginevra managed to dodge in time, having noticed the danger moments earlier.

I barely had time to react.

Dante moved first.

Without hesitation, he rushed forward and scooped Camille into his arms.

"Call an ambulance!"

Panic filled his voice.

"She's been burned. Hurry!"

The urgency in his tone made it sound as though her injuries were life-threatening.

Meanwhile, a sharp sting spread across my arm where several embers had struck me.

But Dante never looked my way.

Not once.

His entire world narrowed to Camille.

As though I wasn't even there.

Silently, I lowered my gaze and touched the small burns on my arm.

The pain was immediate.

Sharp.

Real.

One of the waiters, rushing to assist, noticed my discomfort and paused.

"Mrs. Valente, are you alright? Do you need medical attention?"

I opened my mouth to answer.

Before I could speak, Dante's voice cut through the room again.

Cradling Camille protectively against his chest, he gently smoothed a hand through her hair.

"Make sure she's treated immediately."

His tone was urgent.

Demanding.

The waiter looked from him to me, visibly unsure who needed help first.

Seeing his hesitation, I forced a small smile.

"I'm fine."

I lowered my hand.

"Please take care of her first."

Only then did Dante glance at me.

Just briefly.

As though he had suddenly remembered I existed.

"If you're hurt, deal with it yourself."

His voice was cold.

Detached.

"Just don't make a scene."

Something tightened painfully in my chest.

Still, I kept my expression calm.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Dante."

Satisfied, he looked away again and returned all his attention to Camille.

A moment later, he guided her outside to wait for the ambulance.

Two soldiers stationed near the entrance immediately moved to flank them without being told.

Not one of them looked back.

Ginevra remained standing nearby, visibly annoyed.

She tapped her nails rapidly against her wine glass.

"Great."

She rolled her eyes.

"Now the whole evening is ruined."

Not once did she ask if I was hurt.

Not once did she even glance at my injuries.

The moment they disappeared from sight, I finally allowed myself to wince.

The burns throbbed painfully beneath my sleeve.

The waiter returned carrying a cold compress.

Sympathy softened his expression.

"Here, ma'am. This should help."

I accepted it gratefully.

"Thank you."

The cool cloth eased some of the pain.

And somehow, the simple kindness of a stranger felt more comforting than anything I had received from the people I once considered family.

As I pressed the compress against my arm, a thought quietly surfaced.

This will be the last time.

The last time I allow myself to be ignored.

After leaving the restaurant, I took a taxi directly to the hospital.

The burns weren't severe, but they hurt enough to require treatment.

In the emergency room, the doctor carefully examined my arm before beginning treatment.

"You're lucky," he said. "The burns aren't deep. With proper care, you should heal within a few days."

"Thank you, Doctor."

As I waited to settle the bill, two nurses nearby began chatting quietly.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't have paid attention.

Then I heard Dante's name.

"Did you hear?" one nurse whispered. "Mr. Valente reserved an entire floor for that woman."

"And he brought in several specialists for her consultation."

A bitter smile tugged at my lips.

How ironic.

He had never gone to those lengths for me.

Not once.

Not even when I needed him most.

Pushing the thought away, I handed my card to the receptionist.

A few moments later, she frowned and returned it.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but this card has been blocked."

I stared down at it.

The Valente family card.

The one Dante had given me years ago.

Understanding dawned instantly.

He had seen the divorce papers.

And this was his response.

A punishment.

A warning.

A reminder of who controlled the money.

"Oh."

I forced a smile.

"My mistake."

Reaching into my wallet, I handed over my personal card instead—the account funded entirely by the paintings I had sold over the years.

As the payment processed, an uncomfortable realization settled over me.

Habit was a frightening thing.

For years, I had relied on what the Family provided.

And now, all it took was one signature on the wrong document to reveal exactly how fragile that security truly was.

One decision.

One disagreement.

And suddenly, you discovered what your value really was.

Nothing.

After my arm was bandaged, I returned to the estate.

Dante and Camille would be spending the night at the hospital, which suited me perfectly.

The last thing I wanted was to see either of them.

Several staff members noticed the bandage wrapped around my arm and immediately looked concerned.

"It's just a minor burn," I reassured them with a smile.

"Please don't worry. And I'm sorry for disturbing everyone so late."

The following morning, I was awakened by the soft chime of a notification.

Still half asleep, I reached for my phone.

Then I froze.

An acceptance notice.

The Arts Academy in Italy had officially confirmed my admission.

My heart nearly stopped.

The school requested one final artwork as part of the enrollment process.

Excitement surged through me so suddenly that it drowned out everything else.

Without wasting a second, I gathered my art supplies and headed downstairs.

The driver immediately offered to take me.

For the first time, I declined.

"I'll drive myself."

He looked uncertain but stepped aside.

Like everyone employed by the Valente family, he wasn't accustomed to people refusing the routines that had always existed.

But I no longer wanted those routines.

I wanted freedom.

I drove directly to the RISD Museum, hoping inspiration would come from the art that had first made me fall in love with painting.

And it did.

Hours slipped by unnoticed.

I sketched.

Painted.

Created.

Completely losing myself in the process.

For the first time in years, I felt light.

As though the weight of my marriage had finally loosened its grip around my throat.

With every brushstroke, another piece of myself returned.

The version of me that existed before Dante.

Before disappointment.

Before years of waiting for love that never came.

I was so absorbed in my work that I didn't notice night had fallen until my phone suddenly rang.

The sound shattered the peaceful silence of the studio.

I glanced at the screen.

Dante.

A flicker of annoyance crossed my face as I answered.

"What is it?"

"Where are you?"

His voice was sharp.

Demanding.

I could practically picture him standing in the dining room, irritated to discover I wasn't sitting there waiting for him like I always had.

"Where I am is none of your business, Mr. Valente."

My tone was ice cold.

The silence on the other end lasted only a second.

Then I felt his anger through the phone.

"How long are you going to keep up this tantrum, Seraphina?"

He scoffed.

"Is this because I cut off the card?"

Another bitter laugh.

"We both know you can't survive without me."

I lowered my gaze to the familiar callus on my middle finger.

The ridge felt solid beneath my thumb.

Steady.

Reliable.

Unlike him.

Taking a slow breath, I answered calmly.

"Actually, I can."

Then I hung up.

Without hesitation.

Without regret.

Without looking back.

A moment later, a text message appeared.

**Dante:** Come back right now, or I'll drag you home.

I stared at the screen.

Then typed a single word.

**Seraphina:** Never.

With one final swipe, I blocked his number.

And for the first time in a very long time, I felt free.