Chapter 3

Dante returned quickly.

His gaze swept past the suitcase by the door without lingering. He walked toward me, still wearing his evening coat. He carried the familiar scent of smoke and cologne, layered with the faint trace of Luciana’s perfume.

“Alessia,” he said, reaching a hand toward my face. “Why did you turn off your phone?”

I stepped back. “I wanted some quiet.”

His hand paused, then dropped. A moment later, he stepped closer and draped an arm around my shoulders, acting as if this were still a situation he could easily manage.

“This is about the Instagram post, isn't it?”

I said nothing, and he took my silence as agreement.

“Luciana works beside me every day,” he said, his voice calm and almost gentle. “She manages my schedule, the accounts, and the political arrangements. Of course people see us together. It doesn't mean what you think it means.”

“You already know how some of the old families talk about you. They think you don't understand this lifestyle. Don't give them more gossip just because you're upset over something meaningless.”

He kept talking, reshaping the narrative to fit his preferred version of reality.

“What happened at the hospital was awful, and I know you're grieving. But humiliating Luciana in public won't change anything. She was in tears over that comment, yet she was still trying to defend you to me.”

I looked at him and realized, with a clarity that no longer hurt, that he believed every word he was saying. He actually believed the woman who delayed my surgery had spent the evening defending me. Above all, he believed I had exaggerated the danger.

“I give you a life where you never have to worry about a thing,” he said, his expression tightening when I remained silent. “If you keep treating Luciana like the enemy, I'm going to start thinking this is more about control than grief.”

Softening his tone, he added, “You've been through a shock. Go get some rest, and let me handle everything else.”

That was when I laughed.

The sound was quiet, but it stopped him in his tracks.

I crossed the room, placed the suitcase on the bed, and unzipped it. Inside were two sweaters, a pair of jeans, an old coat, my passport, and a folder of personal papers. There was nothing else.

Dante frowned. “What is this supposed to prove?”

I touched the sleeve of the coat, which I had bought before I even met him.

“You said I never had to worry about anything,” I replied. “Yet I'm leaving your penthouse with barely enough to survive a few days.”

His face hardened. “That's absurd.”

“Is it?” I met his gaze. “If I need cash, it goes through Luciana. If I need to change my schedule, it goes through Luciana. If I need a car outside of normal hours, it goes through Luciana. Whenever there's a dinner, a fundraiser, or a family event, she decides what I wear and when I'm informed about it.”

I took a breath and delivered the line that finally made him freeze.

“Your maids carry more money in their handbags than I do.”

He started to interrupt, but I grabbed his sleeve and led him into the dressing room.

Past the mirrors and gowns, just beyond the jewelry drawers, sat the inner vault where the family kept cash and anything valuable enough to monitor. I pointed to the security panel next to the steel door.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Open it.”

His gaze shifted from the keypad to me, then back again.

“Code first. Then fingerprint. Then a release from the family office downstairs. And whose clearance approves that final release?”

He didn't answer.

“Luciana's,” I answered for him.

For the first time, genuine confusion crossed his face. He looked at the vault, then at the room around us, as if seeing it all from a new perspective. The moment passed quickly, though. Whenever the truth threatened him, he instinctively reached for an explanation that protected his pride.

“So that's what this is really about,” he finally said. “Authority.”

Whatever was left inside me turned even colder.

He still thought this was about jealousy. He couldn't grasp that when I needed him the most, he had chosen to believe I was lying.

I let go of his sleeve and took a step back.

“It doesn't matter what you think anymore,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “Alessia.”

I picked up the divorce papers from the bed and held them out.

“This marriage is over.”