Serena thought it would take a while for someone like Dante Bianchi to answer.

Little did she know, the line had already connected at the first ring.

“Serena,” his voice came sharp and low, steel wrapped in velvet. “You’re not playing with me, are you?”

She stayed silent, her breath caught in her throat.

“I’ve been chasing you for as long as you’ve been crawling after Luca Romano. Seven years—seven wasted years—while you froze me out like ice. And now, suddenly, you bend? What the hell changed?”

Dante Bianchi. Head of the Bianchi syndicate. Her almost-choice.

He had chased her with ruthless patience for seven years. In truth, she nearly gave in.

But on the night she was supposed to decide, Luca whispered promises that never came true. And she left Dante behind.

Now, faced with his questions, Serena took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Forget I called.”

A crash thundered through the receiver—glass or maybe a chair hitting the wall. Her pulse spiked.

“You think I’m a fool you can pick up when you’re lonely and toss aside when you’re not? Huh, Serena?” His voice roared, full of fury. “No. You chose me this time. You don’t get to run again.”

She bit her lip. “Dante—”

“One month,” he cut her off, voice like a loaded gun. “Deal with that bastard husband. After that, I’m coming for you. And when I do, you won’t escape me.”

The line went dead.

A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. He hasn’t changed, she realized. Not in anger, not in desire.

That night, Luca never came home.

She spent the hours in silence, sorting through closets and drawers, folding her life into boxes. By dawn, pale light spilled across the marble floors when the front door finally opened.

Luca stepped inside, still in yesterday’s clothes, reeking faintly of perfume that wasn’t hers.

“What are you throwing out?”

Serena flinched—barely—but straightened, tucking hair behind her ear. “Just some garbage.”

He walked over, glanced inside the box. Silk dresses, jewels, and cufflinks he had tossed at her like bribes.

“You call these… garbage?”

“Old gifts. Old clothes,” she said lightly. “They take up space. I thought I’d donate them under your name—the orphans on the hill could use them. Might even buy you some goodwill.”

At that, his lips curved faintly. “Always thinking ahead.”

But she knew better. He hadn’t believed her excuse; he simply didn’t care enough to dig deeper.

Suddenly, the sound of shattering glass cracked the air.

Serena spun around.

Isabella stood near the shelf, wide-eyed, a Venetian glass vase in shards at her feet. Her expression was pure innocence, the kind that deceived even devils.

“Oops… sorry, Luca, Serena. I didn’t mean to.”

Luca didn’t glance at Serena. He rushed straight to Isabella, brushing past his wife as if she were invisible. His hands hovered over Isabella’s arms, checking for cuts.

“Are you hurt?” His voice softened, stripped of its usual edge.

Seeing no injury, he sighed in relief. “It’s fine. Nothing matters more than you.”

But Isabella wasn’t finished. Her eyes slid toward Serena, coy, testing. “You don’t mind, do you, cousin?”

Serena’s gaze dropped to the shards on the floor.

That vase had been one of a kind—commissioned after their trip to Venice, the only piece etched with both her and Luca’s initials entwined. Now, it was rubble.

Once, she might have cried, demanded justice.

Now, she only lifted her chin and said evenly, “It’s fine.”

A flicker passed across Isabella’s face before she smiled sweetly. “You’re always so generous.” Then, turning back to Luca: “With a cousin like that, I’m sure she won’t mind if I ask one more thing.”

He didn’t even look at Serena when he spoke.

“Isabella’s just back from Florence. The Caruso house is empty, and she hates staying alone. She’ll live here for now. Your room faces the sun. She’s always been sensitive to the cold. Move your things.”

Serena had long stopped expecting to share a bed with her husband.

Luca’s excuse was always the same—he couldn’t sleep with anyone beside him.

But she knew better. He just couldn’t sleep beside her.

When he told her to give Isabella her room, she didn’t argue. That alone seemed to throw him. He had probably prepared some slick justification, but she cut it short.

“Fine,” she said, her tone almost careless. “I’ll move my things out tonight.”

For a moment, his eyes flickered—something like hesitation—but Isabella slid her arm through his and cooed, “See? She understands.”

Serena turned away without answering. She crouched and wrapped her arms around a wooden crate packed with clothes and books, heavier than she should have attempted alone. Her heel slipped against the polished stone, and the corner of the crate smashed against her hand. The bones in her knuckles screamed. She collapsed to her knees, breath catching, pain radiating sharp and hot up her arm.

Neither Luca nor Isabella noticed. He was already listening to her chatter about her trip abroad, smiling faintly as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Serena stayed crouched on the floor, her injured hand trembling against the weight, her lashes wet. It wasn’t the first time she had bled in silence, and it wouldn’t be the last.

By sunset, the halls of the villa were stripped of her. She had sent box after box out with the staff until nothing remained but bare furniture.

“You didn’t need to clear so much,” Luca remarked as he adjusted his cufflinks. “Isabella’s not staying forever. When she leaves, you’ll move back in. Why waste the effort?”

“They were old things,” Serena replied smoothly. “Dead weight. Better to clear them out.”

“You’ve never thrown anything away before.”

She only smiled faintly. “Sometimes you burn the old, so something new has room to grow.”

It was the truth, but not one he could ever understand.

Luca didn’t press. Instead, he changed the subject with a snap of finality. “There’s an auction tonight. Important faces will be there. You’ll come. Isabella, too.”

---

The auction house sat like a palace on the riverfront, guarded by black-suited men with guns under their jackets. Crystal chandeliers spilled golden light over rows of velvet chairs. The air was rich with money and danger—politicians, bankers, dons, all gathered under one roof, trading both art and influence.

The host, a slick-tongued broker with too-bright eyes, hurried to greet them. “Mr. Romano, what an honor. Your seat is ready.”

He gestured toward a pair of chairs near the front. “And of course, a second seat—for your wife?”

The words fell like a blade.

Serena stood a step behind Luca, watching. Two women. One chair. His choice.

It wasn’t a surprise when his hand closed around Isabella’s. “This is Isabella Caruso. Don Caruso’s daughter.”

Recognition lit in the host’s eyes. “The Caruso princess. An honor.”

“And her?” the man asked, glancing toward Serena.

Luca’s expression didn’t flicker. “My operations officer. Handles logistics.”

The words were clean, precise—erasing her role as his wife without hesitation.

Serena felt the sting cut through her ribs, but her face remained calm, unreadable. She stood tall behind them, nothing more than a shadow.

They took their seats, gleaming under the light. She stayed behind, an ornament no one acknowledged.

The hall was too bright, too suffocating. A sudden spasm of pain tore through her abdomen, sharp and merciless. She pressed a hand against her side, her steps quickening as she slipped out toward the restroom—her chest heaving as though she were fleeing.

The chill of the marble floor seeped into Serena’s bones. At first, she thought it was just fatigue, the kind that came from standing too long in heels, smiling when her heart was bleeding dry. But then the cramps twisted deeper, sharp and merciless, until she was forced to steady herself against the sink.

She reached for the door. The handle refused to turn.

A shadow fell across the crack beneath the frame. Then Isabella’s voice drifted through—syrupy sweet, dripping with venom.

“Still clinging to that ring on your finger, cousin? You really think it means anything?”

Serena pressed her forehead against the wood, her breath uneven.

“Luca’s always belonged to me,” Isabella continued. “You were just the placeholder. A ghost keeping his bed warm until I returned. And you dare walk into tonight’s auction like you belong at his side?”

Pain cut through Serena’s abdomen. Her body trembled, but her words came sharp, low.

“If you want him so badly, take him. I won’t fight you for scraps.”

Isabella laughed, the sound sharp enough to draw blood.

“You think I’ll believe that? You’ve been obsessed since we were children. You’ve always wanted what wasn’t yours. First my father’s trust, now my man. You’re pathetic.”

There was a scrape as something heavy was dragged outside the door. A sign slammed against the wall: Vault Access – Restricted. No one would dare open it now.

“Stay here,” Isabella said coldly. “Freeze in the dark. No one’s coming.”

Her footsteps faded, leaving Serena trapped in silence.

The air grew colder by the hour. Serena sank to the floor, the cramps clawing through her body. She pounded the door once, twice—each strike weaker than the last.

“Help… someone…”

Her voice barely carried. The marble stole her heat, her strength. Finally, her body gave in, curling tight against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.

---

The auction ended hours later. Luca glanced once toward the corridor, brows faintly drawn. Serena hadn’t returned.

“Maybe she was upset,” Isabella murmured, looping her arm through his. Her eyes glistened with false guilt. “If I’d known sitting beside you would wound her pride, I never would’ve taken her place.”

“You’re Don Caruso’s daughter,” Luca replied, his tone dismissive. “She’s just staff. If she can’t handle her role, let her sulk. Maybe the lesson will do her good.”

Isabella lowered her gaze to hide her smile. You see, Serena? You’ll never matter more than I do.

That night, Luca went home with Isabella on his arm. He never once asked about his wife.

---

It wasn’t until dawn that a cleaning woman turned her master key in the restroom door.

She gasped at the sight: Serena, crumpled in the corner, silk dress damp, her skin pale as bone.

“Madam! Saints preserve us—how long have you been in here? You’re freezing!” The woman crouched, frantic. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

Serena stirred, lashes heavy, forcing herself upright against the wall. Her voice was hoarse but steady. “No. Thank you. I’ll manage.”

The pain in her body had dulled, leaving only exhaustion and cold.

For one foolish moment, she had believed Luca would come looking. But the night had passed, and he hadn’t even noticed her absence.

She remembered when Isabella once vanished for ten minutes at a party—Luca had ordered every soldier in the compound to search, nearly calling the police.

But for his wife? Nothing. Not a single word.

That was the difference between love and indifference.

Step by step, she left the hall and hailed a cab. At the exit, her confiscated phone was returned.

No messages from Luca. No missed calls.

But one number had lit her screen again and again. Unknown.

She pressed play on the last voicemail.

“Serena. I won’t give you thirty days. I’ve already put eyes on you. Seven nights—no more. If Luca Romano won’t protect you, I will. Willingly or not, you’ll be mine.”

Her grip tightened on the phone. A bitter smile curved her lips.

Even abandoned, she wasn’t unseen. Even discarded, someone was already moving through the city’s shadows for her.