After checking our bedroom, I was certain of it: Dante didn't live here anymore.

If that was the case, why had he tried to stop me from coming back?

I called him again. He answered in that same calm, measured tone. "It's for your own safety, Isabella," he said, his tone placating. "Things with the family have been unstable lately. The estate is too big a target."

"You just stay put. I'll be there to pick you up right away."

His explanation temporarily eased my anxiety.

While I waited, I sent a message to my cousin, Marco, telling him I was back.

A moment later, an encrypted message flashed on the screen.

Marco, clearly shocked, asked when I'd arrived in Chicago.

【This afternoon.】

After a short pause, Marco replied:

【At the charity gala tonight, take a good look at the people around Dante.】

My heart tightened.

I knew Dante was hosting a charity gala, but what was so special about it?

Before I could dwell on it, a black Rolls-Royce appeared, and a tall, formidable figure stepped out.

The last time I saw Dante was six months ago, when he flew to Italy to spend New Year's with me.

I moved to link my arm with his. "Have you missed me, Dante?"

Dante's stern features softened, but he sidestepped my affectionate gesture. "I have."

As Dante pulled away from the curb, the sleek, luxurious car turned heads.

I heard people nearby whispering:

"God, who is that guy? He's... intense."

"And the woman with him? She's gorgeous, so elegant..."

A sweet warmth spread through my chest, and I couldn't help but smile.

We weren't just boyfriend and girlfriend—we'd been married for seven years.

Our wedding had simply been a private affair, with only core members of our two families in attendance.

He had waited for me for so many years. I couldn't let him down.

Part of the reason I’d rushed back was to finally start our lives together, for real.

When we arrived at the hotel, just as I thought Dante would take me home, he arranged a presidential suite for me instead.

"Isabella, your return caught me off guard. My new place… it's a mess. It's not ready for you. Would you mind a hotel for just one night?"

Dante's tone was sincere, yet it held an undercurrent of command that left no room for argument.

I was confused. "You don't need to set anything up. We can just share a room, can't we?"

Dante frowned, taking my hand. "But my place is a complete mess. As soon as the housekeeper has it ready, I'll come and get you."

"All right."

It was already late, close to eight in the evening, and a wave of exhaustion hit me.

I had just returned; I didn't want to start a fight.

...

The next day, Dante sent someone to deliver my gown for the gala.

A stunning floor-length gown, exquisite jewelry—it was all breathtakingly luxurious.

We appeared at the gala together.

To make up for my wait, he was especially attentive, showering me with affection in front of everyone, letting us relive the sweetness of our past.

We sat at the head table, and he introduced me to the heads of various families.

It was like we were that same loving couple from seven years ago.

Towards the end of the evening, he accompanied me to the terrace for some fresh air.

Our fingers were intertwined as we leaned against the railing. That's when I noticed it. The Florentine lily I'd designed for the tattoo on his arm—the one he got for me—was gone, covered by a garish, thorny rose.

I asked about it casually. Dante explained it was to cover an old scar.

I didn't doubt him. I glanced down at my vibrating phone. A confirmation message from Italy: the book restoration I had commissioned was complete.

It was the gift I had prepared for him to celebrate our reunion: a first-edition of Machiavelli's The Prince, his favorite book.

If all went well, it would be mailed over tomorrow.

...

I received the book the next day. My plan was to give it to him after the gala, a symbol of our new beginning.

However, just as I was about to approach him, a strange woman blocked my way.

She wore a fiery red dress, and her glare was venomous.

"Miss, Dante doesn't have time for social climbers like you tonight."

Her words stunned me as the surrounding guests turned to stare.

Camera flashes flickered in the dim light, and those who had already noticed the confrontation began to whisper.

Their eyes were on me.

"Who is she? She has some nerve, making a scene at a Falcone event."

"She doesn't look like one of us. Probably just trying to get in."

"Selena is not someone you want to cross. This is going to be good."

...

The whispers swirled around me, and I stood frozen, a tremor running through me that I couldn't stop.

"Who are you?"

I was furious, and utterly confused.

The woman sneered, showing off the diamond necklace draped around her throat.

"I'm Selena Vance. Dante's woman."

"I've seen plenty of little bitches like you trying to get close to him."

"You dare try to seduce my man? Believe me, I can make you disappear from Chicago."

The camera shutters clicked furiously as the guests, having gathered in a tight circle, reveled in the drama.

"Isn't that the singer from Dante's club?"

"Who's the one she's talking to? God, she's more beautiful than any celebrity."

"I heard Selena call her a social climber. Wait, isn't Selena's boyfriend Dante?"

Countless people pulled out their phones to record, their murmurs branding me a shameless gold digger.

My senses slowly returned. I zeroed in on the necklace around her neck.

"What is your relationship with Dante?" I asked slowly.

Selena's red lips curved into a smug smile. "I'm his official girlfriend. The next Madre of the Falcone family. This necklace is a token of his love for me."

She tilted her chin, flashing the priceless diamond necklace. "What did he buy you?" she sneered.

A jolt went through me. I recognized that necklace.

It was an heirloom from my mother, one that was supposed to be locked in the safe at the estate.

I didn't rise to her bait. Instead, I opened my phone and pulled up a wedding photo of Dante and me from seven years ago.

"I am his legal wife."

The moment the photo appeared, the crowd froze.

The guests' faces were a mixture of shock and excitement as they frantically snapped pictures of my phone screen.

Wine glasses nearly slipped from slackened grips.

"Holy crap! Dante is married?!"

"Then what's the deal with him and Selena? Does that make her the other woman?"

"Talk about drama. Both of them calling the other one out."

On social media, the videos caused an immediate uproar.

#DonsSecretWife

#FalconeScandal

Selena's face turned ashen. "You're Isabella?" she blurted out in disbelief. "No, you're supposed to be in Italy…"

She cut herself off, realizing her slip, and tried to flee the scene in a panic.

But the guests, having caught the scent of blood in the water, weren't about to let her go.

The cameras that had been aimed at me now swiveled to Selena.

"Miss Vance, do you know this woman?"

"Regarding her claim to be the Don's wife, do you have a comment, Miss Vance?"

As Selena stood there, pale and cornered, she made a frantic call.

"Hello, Dante…"

A short while later, Falcone family bodyguards appeared and dispersed the guests.

Freed from the crowd, Selena was brought with me to a private study upstairs.

She let out a sigh of relief, her gaze, no longer panicked, sizing me up with undisguised jealousy.

"You must be Isabella. I've heard Dante mention you. We've been together for four years."

There was a hint of pride in her expression, not a shred of shame for being a homewrecker.

The knowledge that my husband had been betraying me for four years landed like a physical blow.

Four years.

Dante had been cheating on me for four long years.

Seeing my pained expression, Selena laughed. "I didn't realize it was you, Isabella. It was all a misunderstanding. You can forgive me, right?"

"In our world," I said, my voice dangerously low, "mistresses rarely meet a happy end."

I frowned in disgust, the air in my lungs feeling tight.

"Isabella!" Dante's voice boomed from the doorway.

Selena rushed to his side. "Dante!"

I turned to leave, but Dante pushed Selena aside and stormed after me, grabbing my wrist.

I ripped my arm from his grasp. "You've touched her," I spat. "Don't you dare touch me."