The next morning, I went to the manor that was supposed to be our marital home. Movers were already carrying things into my main restoration studio. My specialized restoration tools had been tossed into a trash bag in the hallway.

Lorenzo emerged from the room, guilt flickering across his face. "Alessia, the doctor said Bianca's old wound needs rest, and she needs a quiet environment to 'create.' I let her move into the main studio for now. You'll have to use the assistant's studio. Don't get me wrong, this is only temporary. After we're married, I'll renovate a bigger studio for you."

I gazed at the mess. The scent of another woman had already invaded my space.

In the past, I might have cried or demanded to know why he hadn't consulted me. Now, I just felt dead inside.

"She can stay as long as she wants," I said. "I don't care." I walked past him to retrieve my boxes from the study.

Lorenzo stood there, shocked by how "reasonable" I was. It seemed to unnerve him. As I walked away, he reached out as if to help me.

"Alessia, are you upset? I promise, it's only for a week..."

I sidestepped his touch. "No need. I'll do it myself."

Lorenzo's hand froze in mid-air. He pressed his lips together, his expression tight. "Let the manor staff do it," he said softly. "Listen, if you're still angry, I can—"

Before he could finish, his Consigliere appeared, reporting an urgent family matter.

Lorenzo hesitated, then tossed a quick word over his shoulder. "I have to handle business in the study. We'll talk later." He turned and left in a hurry.

Not long after he was gone, Bianca appeared at the end of the hall. She was wearing my custom-made silk robe, and I could smell the faint but unmistakable scent of Lorenzo's cologne on the collar.

She drifted toward me, a challenge glinting in her eyes, though her voice remained deceptively soft. "Moving out so soon? You must be exhausted. Lorenzo stayed with me all night, massaging the old wound on my shoulder... I feel so much better now."

A cruel, triumphant smile spread across her face as she lowered her voice. "See this? The Argento family tattoo on Lorenzo's chest will soon have my name added to it."

Just then, I heard Lorenzo's footsteps thundering down the stairs.

The malice on Bianca's face vanished instantly, replaced by a mask of sheer terror. She had just reached the priceless painting I was restoring when she violently slashed the canvas with a palette knife, then sliced her own arm and let out a piercing scream.

"Alessia! Please, don't hurt me!"

Lorenzo arrived like a whirlwind. He looked at Bianca's bleeding arm and the ruined painting, and his composure completely shattered.

He spun on me, his eyes blazing with betrayal and rage. "Alessia! I thought you were better than this. How could you be so vicious?"

I said nothing, just stared at him coldly.

He didn't wait for an explanation. He swept Bianca into his arms and rushed toward the family doctor, cradling her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

In that moment, I remembered a family conflict from two years ago. I had pulled several all-nighters to restore an oil painting damaged by a rival family, a piece of great significance to us. The exhaustion was so intense that the blood vessels in my eyes had burst. Trembling, I had begged him to stay with me.

But he had just looked at me coldly. "The family has a lot to deal with," he'd told me. "As the future Donna, you need to be stronger. Your skills are unparalleled; you'll solve this little problem in no time."

So, he wasn't incapable of gentleness. He just saved it for someone else.

In our world, a scratch like that was nothing, yet he acted as if Bianca were on death's door. That blatant double standard finally extinguished the last spark of affection I had for him.

I watched them go, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping my lips. My phone vibrated.

It was a message from Julian Sterling.

[Alessia, your extraction team is on standby. We can move whenever you're ready.]

Without hesitation, I replied: [See you in two hours.]

I returned to my room to pack the last of my restoration notes and my mother's belongings.

However, when I opened the hidden compartment in my jewelry box, my mind went blank.

It was gone. The antique gold locket my mother had left me was missing. Inside was a miniature self-portrait she had painted by hand—the only memento I had of her.

I knew exactly who had taken it. At that moment, my rage finally boiled over.

Blind with a killing rage, I stormed toward the infirmary.

I kicked the door open.

Bianca was in the room alone, sitting on the bed. She was casually prying at the gold locket with a small knife, a malicious smirk on her face.

"Looking for this?" She saw me, but there was no fear in her eyes, only a crazed defiance. "Something this shabby doesn't belong in this mansion. It's bad luck, and I don't want it dirtying the bedroom Lorenzo and I will share."

With that, she hurled the locket onto the hard marble floor in front of me.

There was a sharp, cracking sound. The casing buckled on impact. The miniature self-portrait my mother had painted, now mixed with shattered glass and metal, scattered across the floor.

I lost all ability to think. All that was left was pure, burning hatred.

I lunged. Before Bianca could react, I backhanded her across the face. I put all my strength into the blow, and her cheek immediately swelled.

She fell onto the pile of fragments, letting out a heart-wrenching scream. But just as she fell, her eyes darted over my shoulder toward the door.

Heavy footsteps were approaching. Bianca looked toward the door and flashed me a triumphant, mocking smile.

Bianca began to sob uncontrollably, her voice trembling. "Alessia... I was just trying to polish the locket for you... Why would you do this?"

Lorenzo and Giovanni burst into the infirmary.

"Bianca!" Lorenzo's eyes instantly turned bloodshot, and a terrifying authority—the kind only a Don could project—suffocated the room.

Before I could utter a word, he shoved me. The force sent me staggering back against the stone wall, and I felt my organs jolt.

"Cough..." I spat out a mouthful of blood.

For a split second, Lorenzo looked at my pale face, a flicker of hesitation and panic in his eyes. He took half a step toward me, his fingers trembling, as if to reach out.

But Bianca let out a timely, feeble whimper. "Papa... Lorenzo, please don't be angry with her. She was just upset about me taking over the studio and wanted to teach me a lesson."

Giovanni, trembling with rage, pointed at my face. "You ungrateful bitch! How could you strike your own sister over a title?"

The flicker of guilt in Lorenzo's eyes vanished, replaced by an icy fury. He averted his gaze, refusing to look at the blood on my lips, his voice cold enough to freeze the room. "Alessia, I've had enough of you."

"From now on, you are stripped of your title as Chief Restorer. Bianca will take over all art-related 'investments' for the family. Her inauguration ceremony will be in three days."

He paused. "As for our engagement, it is postponed indefinitely. A woman as vicious as you is not worthy of being the Donna of the Argento family. Don't even mention the ceremony to me again until you've learned some humility and admitted what you've done."

Leaning against the wall, I wiped the blood from my mouth and laughed. I looked at these two men I was once willing to die for—one disgusted, the other enraged. The last embers in my heart died out.

"Fine," I said softly.

Lorenzo seemed shocked that I agreed so easily. Just then, my hidden communicator vibrated. It was a message from Julian Sterling: [My team has reached the border. Also, I've found some intelligence you might find interesting. If you change your mind about leaving, let me know anytime.]

I opened the report Julian had sent.

Bianca wasn't Lorenzo's savior. She wasn't even my father's daughter. The Russian mob, the Bratva, had killed my father's real illegitimate daughter years ago and replaced her with Bianca. The entire story of her saving Lorenzo in the gunfight was an elaborately staged performance.

I stared at the report and laughed until tears streamed down my face. Lorenzo, Father—the woman you're so desperately protecting is the very person sent to destroy you. How ironic.

I returned to the manor and packed my final restoration notes—the preliminary concepts for cracking the "Financial Virus." Just as I closed my suitcase, the door was pushed open.

Lorenzo stood there, looking tense. He held a bottle of the family's best medicinal ointment. He walked toward me, and seeing my pale skin, a hint of guilt flickered in his eyes.

"This is the best wound medication on the market," he said softly, reaching out to apply it for me. "I let my anger get the better of me. I never meant to hurt you that badly."

I recoiled, avoiding his touch. Lorenzo's hand froze in mid-air. He finally noticed the suitcase at my feet, and his pupils contracted. For the first time, his voice held a trace of panic. "What's with the suitcase? Where are you planning to go?"

I looked at him calmly. "Too much has happened. I'm tired. I'm going to Europe for a while to clear my head and attend a few art exhibitions."

Hearing the words "clear my head," Lorenzo seemed to relax. He reached out to embrace me, his hands hovering over my shoulders.

"I know you've been upset lately, Alessia," he said, his tone almost condescending. "Go and get some air. When you come back, we'll have the grandest wedding Chicago has ever seen. No one can take your place."

Hearing the promise I had waited five years for, I felt nothing. Now, it only made me sick.

"Alright," I nodded. "I understand."

Lorenzo's phone began to ring frantically. It was Bianca.

The moment he saw the caller ID, his expression tensed. I could hear Bianca's delicate voice on the other end, complaining that her wound hurt or that she couldn't understand a certain investment project.

Lorenzo didn't even have time to say another word to me. He shoved the ointment into my hand and rushed out. "Use the medicine. Bianca needs me. I have to go, but I'll come see you tonight."

I watched him run off and let out a dry laugh. I looked at the priceless ointment in my hand and tossed it into the trash.

I took out a lighter. Click. The flame ignited the photos I had torn from an album. Photos of me and Giovanni, photos of every moment with Lorenzo over the past five years. The fire consumed the false memories until only ashes remained.

I walked out to find the butler, Arthur, crying at the end of the hall. He was the only person in this house who had ever been kind to me. I handed him a check for one hundred thousand dollars.

"Take this and retire to the countryside," I said softly, pressing a black USB drive into his hand. "Three days from now, after Bianca's ceremony is over, make sure Lorenzo gets this."

I picked up my bag and headed for the border. Just as I was nearing the airport, a text from Giovanni popped up: [You'd better show up at the ceremony in three days. You will publicly apologize to Bianca and tell everyone you gave up the studio voluntarily. Don't push your luck!]

I stared at the screen, then pulled out the SIM card and tossed it into the wind.

Up ahead, a black, armored sedan was parked on the side of the road.

Julian Sterling stepped out. He was striking in a sharply tailored suit, radiating an aura of command. Yet when his powerful gaze met mine, I saw only respect.

He opened the car door for me.

"Welcome aboard, my brilliant restorer," he said.

I looked up at him, my gaze firm. "Let's go, sir."