Valentina's POV
I endured the car ride to the Family's Grand Ballroom in silence, each mile a slow exercise in humiliation.
Silas didn't say a single word to me the entire drive. Anastasia sat beside him in the front seat of the black sedan, her laughter floating back to me like perfume laced with poison. She giggled at something he murmured, leaning close to him, her fingers brushing his arm as though they were the married couple and I was the unwanted guest. No one watching through the tinted windows would have guessed I was Silas Valenti's wife.
Family soldiers and associates turned their heads as we arrived at the entrance, but their eyes didn't land on me.
They landed on Anastasia.
She was draped in a gold gown that caught the chandelier light the moment she stepped through the doors. Her hand curled possessively around Silas's arm as they walked in together like a Don and his Donna, a portrait of power and elegance. She waved and smiled at every face they passed, nodding to capos and their wives as though this was her kingdom, her birthright.
Honestly, it was the truth.
I followed quietly behind them, a shadow trailing two sources of light.
The murmurs started immediately. I could hear them threading through the crowd like smoke.
"Isn't Valentina the Don's wife?"
"Why is Silas walking in with Anastasia?"
"Honestly, Valentina doesn't really look like a Donna compared to Anastasia."
My jaw tightened, but I didn't react. I kept my spine straight and my eyes forward.
I watched as Silas paraded her through the ballroom like she was his wife. He introduced her to the Family elders and senior soldiers with pride, his arm wrapped around her waist as though she belonged to him and he to her. The old men nodded politely, but I caught the way their gazes flickered to me and then away, uncertain, uncomfortable. No one said a word. No one dared.
The moment that sealed everything came during the Don's traditional first dance.
Every year at the Annual Gala, it was tradition for the Don to open the evening with a dance alongside his wife. It was more than ceremony. It was a public declaration: this is my partner, my equal, the woman who stands beside me. In a world built on symbols and rituals, that dance meant everything.
I stood still at the edge of the floor, waiting. Silas's gaze drifted toward me, and for one fleeting second, I thought he might do the right thing. But before he could take a single step in my direction, Anastasia slipped her hand into his.
"Dance with me, Silas," she said softly, her voice pitched just loud enough for the nearest tables to hear. "I'm sorry for asking. I just don't want to feel lonely tonight."
Her eyes glistened with a delicate, practiced sadness. The performance was flawless.
Silas hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he nodded without so much as glancing back at me.
And just like that, he led her to the center of the ballroom floor as the slow, orchestral music began to swell from the string quartet in the corner. Her hand rested proudly against his chest, and he held her with a gentleness I had never once felt from him. The golden fabric of her dress caught the warm light as they turned, and she looked up at him with an expression that said I belong here.
My heart didn't break this time. It was already broken. There was nothing left to shatter.
All I felt was shame. Deep, bone-deep shame that settled in my chest like cold stone.
The ballroom watched. Whispers rippled outward from the dance floor like rings in dark water. Wives leaned toward their husbands. Soldiers exchanged glances. Everyone saw. Everyone understood.
I stood there like an abandoned ornament. The real Donna, left to rot in a corner while another woman stole the show, stole the dance, stole the man who was supposed to be mine. Not because I wanted him. Because the ritual demanded it. Because my dignity demanded it.
Anastasia tilted her head and rested it against Silas's shoulder, the gesture intimate and possessive, the posture of a lover who had already won.
Someone near me whispered, "She fits him better, honestly."
I didn't flinch.
When the music faded, the room erupted in polite applause. Silas smiled faintly, a rare crack in his cold exterior, and nodded down at Anastasia. She grinned, radiant, victorious.
Then, finally, he turned toward me and crossed the floor.
"Valentina," he said, holding out his hand. "Let's have our dance."
I looked at his face. Then at his outstretched hand. The same hand that had held Anastasia moments ago as though she were his entire world. The same hand that had rested against the small of her back while the whole Family watched.
Silence fell over the people nearest to us. Conversations died mid-sentence. Crystal glasses paused halfway to lips. They were all waiting for me to take his hand. To smile. To play my part.
I scoffed internally.
"No, thank you," I said flatly.
Surprise flickered across his face, quick and sharp, before his eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"I said no." My voice didn't shake, because I was calm inside. Perfectly, terribly calm.
His expression hardened, the mask of civility falling away to reveal the cold authority beneath. His tone dropped to something low and dangerous. "Valentina, don't make a scene."
I smiled bitterly. "You started it."
Silas's lip curled. "Why are you being so jealous all the time? It was one dance. I didn't want her to feel left out. Do you have to make everything about you?" he snapped, his voice carrying just far enough to sting.
I held his gaze without blinking. "You don't want her to feel left out, but you don't care that you're neglecting your own wife."
He scowled, a vein ticking at his temple. "You should be glad you even have a husband, you ungrateful—"
Anastasia appeared at his elbow as if summoned. "Please," she said softly, her voice dripping with rehearsed concern, "don't make a scene because of me."
I scoffed, turning my gaze on her. "Stop pretending. It's irritating."
She gasped, one hand flying to her chest in theatrical shock, her eyes widening as though I had struck her. But I didn't wait for the rest of the performance. I turned away from both of them, ignoring the stares that followed me like searchlights, ignoring the whispers that swelled in my wake.
I pushed open the nearest door and found myself in the ladies' powder room. Marble floors. Gold fixtures. The faint scent of gardenias from an arrangement on the vanity. I needed air. I needed space. I needed to stop pretending I was okay.
I slipped into one of the stalls and sat down on the closed lid, pressing my palms flat against my knees, trying to calm the storm inside my skull.
The door opened. Two women entered, their heels clicking against the marble, their voices casual and careless.
"Did you see how she just stood there? Like some servant."
I tensed.
The other woman sighed. "Poor thing. But honestly, what did she expect? Don Valenti clearly doesn't want her."
"I heard she forced the marriage because she was hopelessly in love with him."
One of them giggled. "It makes sense. I mean, look at Anastasia. She's practically glowing. No one in their right mind would ever choose Valentina over Anastasia."
I opened the stall door and walked out quietly.
The women went silent instantly. Their eyes widened, the color draining from their faces as they registered who had been listening.
"Donna Valentina—"
"Good evening, Donna—"
They didn't wait for my response. They hurried out with their gazes cast to the floor, guilt written across their faces like a confession.
I stood alone in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. The woman looking back at me was pale, hollow-eyed, dressed in a gown that suddenly felt like a costume. My collarbone was too sharp. My cheeks were too thin. The careful makeup couldn't hide the exhaustion carved into every line of my face.
Maybe they were right.
I inhaled sharply, pressing my fingertips to the cool marble edge of the vanity, trying to compose myself before I walked back into that hellhole.
The door creaked open again, and I turned to see who it was.
Anastasia.
She leaned against the doorframe, her gold dress catching the warm light, her dark eyes sweeping over me from head to toe with the slow, appraising satisfaction of someone who had already won.
Her lips curled into a slow smirk.
"Well," she purred, "you look like shit."
