Alessia Valentini was madly in love with Matteo Carbone.

He was the Don of the Chicago Carbone family and her father's most trusted ally—a man twelve years her senior.

The first time they met, he gave her a white gown for St. Lucia's Day.

At twenty, when his enemies drugged him in his own home, she saved him. Clad in that same white gown, she stepped into the darkness of his fevered haze and became his cure.

That single choice destroyed everything.

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1

Alessia Valentini was madly in love with Matteo Carbone—a man twelve years her senior, her father's ally.

The first time she saw him, he wore a perfectly tailored black suit that framed his broad shoulders, his presence alone silencing the room. He smiled, ruffled her hair, and handed her a white gown for St. Lucia's Day.

In the blink of an eye, she was twenty. He was drugged by his enemies at a banquet. She wore that same gown and offered herself to him.

The next morning, they lay tangled in the sheets, the acrid scent of sex and stale cigars hanging heavy in the air.

Matteo's childhood sweetheart, Bianca Rossi, froze at the door before fleeing, her eyes blurred with tears. She never saw the shootout erupting at the street corner.

She was killed instantly.

From then on, Matteo changed.

He buried Bianca with an eerie calm. He then married Alessia with the same cold detachment. Every night, he took her with a cold detachment—indifferent, empty, as if fulfilling a grim duty. Each time she conceived, he forced her to the family's private clinic, ensuring the child would never be born. Again and again, until the eighteenth time, when a rival family's attack killed them both.

Lying in a pool of her own blood, her life fading, she heard him yelling into the phone.

His voice was glacial. "Protect the other one! Is she dead yet? Call me back when she is."

In that moment, she finally understood.

He hated her. He hated that she had been his cure. He hated that Bianca had died because of her.

As the heart monitor flatlined, a single, agonizing thought consumed her: It wasn't worth it.

And then—she woke up.

Back in the same hotel suite. Back on the night Matteo was drugged.

Alessia gasped. Matteo lay on the bed, his shirt half-open, his usually harsh features softened by the drug-induced fever.

This was the moment. The moment that had ruined everything. The moment she had thrown herself at him without a thought for the consequences.

But now, she knew the truth.

Matteo and Bianca had always been deeply in love.

They had just never said it aloud—until she came along and tore them apart.

Perhaps fate had taken pity on her. Perhaps she had been given a second chance.

This time, she had only one goal: to ensure Matteo and Bianca ended up together.

She grabbed a burner phone and sent an anonymous message.

Ten minutes later, Bianca burst in, breathless.

Alessia grabbed her hand. "He loves you. And you love him."

"But neither of you has ever said it. He's been drugged—this is your chance."

Bianca hesitated, staring at her as if she were a madwoman.

"You've been obsessed with Matteo for years," Bianca scoffed. "And now you're just going to... what? Hand him over to me? Why should I believe you?"

Alessia let out a dry laugh. Yes, it was no wonder Bianca was suspicious. The entire Chicago underworld knew how infatuated she was with him.

She used to think love was about possession.

That if she just held on long enough, she could force her way between them.

But that wasn't love.

She shook her head and whispered, "I don't love him anymore. And I never will again."

A low, strained groan echoed from the room.

There wasn't much time.

"If you don't go in there now," Alessia said, her voice firm, "you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

Bianca wavered, then bit her lip. "Then what are you still doing here? Planning to listen at the door?"

Alessia flinched but stepped aside.

The moment Bianca reached out to caress Matteo's cheek, Alessia shut the door and disarmed the temporary security lock.

Soft gasps, broken whispers, the rustle of sheets—faint, yet unmistakable.

Every sound was a bullet, shattering the last remnants of her former self.

She collapsed to the floor, her heart a hollow ache. Tears streamed down her face, but strangely, a sense of relief seeped into her very bones.

Finally, she was free.

Alessia wiped her tears and stumbled back to her own room.

Next door, Matteo and Bianca lost themselves in each other, all hesitation forgotten.

Alessia didn't sleep a wink.

At dawn, her satellite phone rang.

It was her father, Marco.

"Alessia, would you like to come live with me in New York?"

A few years ago, when the Valentini family expanded their European operations, Marco had moved abroad alone.

Worried he wouldn't have time to care for Alessia, he had entrusted her to his ally, Matteo.

The arrangement had lasted for several years.

Later, she fell in love with Matteo. So even after Marco's power in Europe was stable and he asked her to join him, she refused.

But now, Matteo and Bianca were finally together.

It was time to let go.

She took a deep breath. "Papa, I'm ready to leave Chicago."

There was a silence on the other end of the line. Then, Marco's voice boomed with relief. "Alessia, you've finally come to your senses. I always told you that boy was no good for you. A man like that... it was never going to end well."

"There's nothing wrong with falling in love, but you must choose the right person. I've already found a fiancé for you—a good match from a family of equal standing."

"When you get to New York, spend some time with him. Think of it as a family alliance; it will do you no harm."

Alessia's already swollen eyes burned anew.

In her past life, he had tried to persuade her, but she hadn't listened. And she had wasted everything because of it.

She clenched her fists and forced a smile.

"Papa, I'll do whatever you say. I'll start the arrangements to leave today."

After hanging up, Alessia wiped her tears, gathered her documents, and prepared to leave.

The moment she opened the door, she nearly collided with Matteo.

The fresh marks on his neck and the scent of a perfume that wasn't hers were stark against his tanned skin. Even though she was prepared, knowing what had happened between him and Bianca, her gaze instinctively darted away.

Matteo caught the flicker of her gaze, the way it darted away from the fresh marks on his neck. That, combined with her swollen eyes, told him everything he needed to know.

His tone was firm. "Alessia, whether you like it or not, Bianca and I are together now. I'm going to marry her."

"Since you live here, be respectful to her. And stop this foolishness."

Alessia's voice was steady. "Understood, Mr. Carbone."

He froze.

She hadn't called him that in years. When she first moved in, she’d always called him "Matteo" with a honeyed sweetness. But ever since falling for him, she had refused to say his name at all.

His frown deepened, and he was about to say something when Bianca's voice called out—"Matteo, I brought my luggage! Which room should I take?"

Her voice broke his train of thought, and he turned to wrap Bianca in his arms. "You love the sun. Alessia's room has the best light; it overlooks Lake Michigan. I'll have her move to the guest room—you can take it."

A flicker of triumph flashed in Bianca's eyes, but her voice was falsely modest. "Oh, I wouldn't want to be a bother. Oh, but I'm the one who just arrived. Maybe I should take the guest room?"

She made a show of heading downstairs, but the next second—a gasp.

Matteo had swept her into his arms. "You will be my wife—the mistress of this house. How could you stay in a guest room?"

"But Alessia has lived in that room for so long. Making her move out suddenly... won't that be hard on her?"

Matteo glanced at Alessia, who was still by the door. "She'll get used to it. She needs to accept that I'm getting married, that this house has a mistress now, and that she is merely a guest under my protection."

Alessia's eyelashes fluttered. A self-mocking smile touched her lips.

A guest.

He wasn't wrong. She really was just a guest.

She let out a soft breath. "I'll go pack now."

It didn't matter. Soon she would be gone—back to her father, never to set foot in this place again.

This estate belonged to Matteo and Bianca.

Alessia threw herself into finalizing her travel arrangements, leaving early and returning late—anything to avoid Matteo.

It was no use. The extravagant way he doted on Bianca was impossible to ignore.

Bianca had no appetite, so he flew in a chef from Sicily.

She wasn't feeling well, so he canceled a multi-million-dollar deal to stay by her side.

If she so much as glanced at a piece of jewelry, it would be delivered to her by his own hands within minutes.

Alessia just watched. No tantrums, no tears.

While waiting for her departure to be finalized, she started packing. First, her clothes. Then, every pathetic portrait she had ever painted of him.

And the sketches. Everything went into a box.

She planned to burn it all in the fireplace.

Box in her arms, she turned for the door and collided with his unyielding chest. He was carrying a dessert. Probably for Bianca.

She ignored him and tried to step around.

A sharp pain shot through her wrist. He had grabbed her.

"Have you been avoiding me?"

Alessia frowned. "I haven't."

Matteo took a step closer, his eyes locked on her. "You haven't? You're out all day and barely show your face. If that's not avoiding me, what is?"

"Is it because I'm with Bianca?"

Alessia shook her head quickly. "No! Mr. Carbone, I'm genuinely happy for you. You've found the person you love, and as someone who grew up by your side, I truly wish you both the best. You can rest assured—I know my feelings will never be returned, so I am letting you go."

She said it so matter-of-factly, as if stating a simple truth.

Matteo's face darkened.

Alessia was letting him go? Ha. As if.

"First the confession, which I refused. Then the pestering, which I also refused. What's this, Alessia? A new strategy?"

He didn't miss the flicker of pain in her eyes, and his suspicion grew.

He moved closer, his gaze dropping to the box in her arms. "You're letting me go? Then why did you paint so many portraits of me? Why did you draw me over and over again? You've been obsessed with me for years, and now you're telling me you're done? Don't you think that's ridiculous?"

She met his gaze, silent.

She knew how insane it sounded.

She had cried wolf too many times. Who would believe her now?

But it was still the truth.

"I did love you," Alessia said, her voice steady. "For a very long time. But you will never love me back. So I've truly given up."

Then, without a hint of hesitation, she turned the box upside down and emptied its contents into the fireplace.

The flames devoured the paper, and she watched, one by one, as the portraits and sketches—all of them—turned to ash right in front of him.

The fragments of her past obsession burned away, light and meaningless.

Matteo didn't look relieved. On the contrary, his expression grew even darker.

For a second, she wondered if she was seeing things.

But before the thought could settle, his cold, sharp voice cut through the air.

"Keep pretending. But remember this—no matter what games you play, the only woman I will ever love is Bianca."

After that day, Alessia and Matteo didn't speak another word.

She had let go. He thought she was playing hard to get. So he ignored her.

This tension lasted until the Carbone family's private banquet.

Before, these events had always revolved around Alessia. Matteo's mother, Isabella, adored her and would fuss over her at every opportunity, only letting her go when Matteo finally came to claim her for a dance.

Now? Everything revolved around Bianca.

She was the future Donna of the Carbone family.

Alessia? Just a guest.

That morning alone was proof of how much they valued Bianca. The moment she arrived, Isabella placed the Carbone family heirloom on her wrist.

In her past life, Alessia had never even laid eyes on that heirloom.

At dinner, the family openly discussed the wedding date. By the end of the party, it was set.

Just as Alessia was preparing to leave with Matteo, Isabella suddenly stopped her.

"I need to speak with you alone."

In the study, Isabella skipped the pleasantries.

"Alessia, it's time for you to move on from Matteo." Her tone was sharp, leaving no room for argument. "He's with Bianca now. Staying here will only embarrass you and cause him trouble. What's the point?"

There wasn't a trace of warmth.

A bitter taste filled Alessia's mouth. Isabella had once adored her—until the day she confessed her love for Matteo. From then on, she had become frivolous, shameless... a burden.

Alessia's fingers dug into her palms. "Don't worry, Mamma Isabella. I'm already making arrangements to leave."

She took out the travel documents and handed them over.

"I've already told my father I'm going to New York. He's even arranged a marriage for me. From now on, I will stay far away from Matteo—I won't bother him anymore."

Isabella examined the documents, and her expression finally softened.

"You'd better keep your word."

As soon as Isabella left, Alessia slowly exhaled, a wave of relief washing over her.

She put the papers back in her bag and turned to leave—only to find Matteo standing in the doorway.

Their eyes met.

His voice was cold. "Who are you planning to stay far away from?"