Elena Vitiello POV
The applause following Dante's performance spattered through the room, brittle and awkward. Gia was preening, wiping a smudge of crimson lipstick from her chin as she basked in her hollow victory.
I felt the walls beginning to close in. The cloying scent of expensive perfume mixed with the stench of hypocrisy was making me nauseous. I turned on my heel and made for the French doors leading to the terrace.
I needed air. I needed to scour the image of his mouth on hers from my retinas.
The night air was crisp, biting against my exposed skin like a physical slap. I walked to the far end of the stone balcony, ensconcing myself in the heavy shadows of a large cypress tree.
I leaned against the railing, staring out at the city lights. Just breathe, I told myself. You survived the bullet; this is just the shrapnel.
I had to leave. Not just the party. I had to leave this life. The Vitiello name, the Rizzoli contract-it was all a web, and I was the fly.
Voices drifted toward me on the wind. Low. Distinctly masculine.
"You're pushing it too far, Dante."
It was Lorenzo, Dante's Consigliere. The voice of reason in a chaotic world.
"She stood there like a statue, Enzo," Dante's voice replied, seething with irritation. "'Someone I used to know.' Who does she think she is?"
"She's your wife. The one you're publicly humiliating."
"It's necessary," Dante snapped. I heard the sharp flick of a lighter, followed by the acrid scent of cigar smoke. "My father won't sanction an annulment. The Vitiello alliance is too important. But if she leaves? If she breaches the contract because she can't handle my 'condition'? Then I'm the victim. I keep the dowry, I keep the alliance, and I get rid of the wife."
My blood turned to ice.
"And Gia?" Lorenzo asked.
Dante laughed. It was a cold, ugly sound. "Gia is a distraction. A prop. She's loud and tacky, but she serves a purpose. Once Elena cracks and runs back to her daddy, I'll cut Gia loose. Give it six months. Then, miraculously, the fog will lift. My memory will return. I'll go to Elena, apologize, say I was confused. She'll take me back. She always does. And then I'll have her exactly where I want her-grateful, submissive, and knowing her place."
I pressed my hand over my mouth to stifle the scream clawing up my throat.
It wasn't just cruelty. It was a blueprint.
He was breaking me down to build me back up as a better pet. He didn't want a wife; he wanted a dog that wouldn't bite. Every tear I shed, every moment of heartbreak, was just a metric in his game.
I felt sick. Physically ill. The love I had held for him, the memories of Montauk, the poetry book-it was all ammunition he had stockpiled to use against me.
I waited in the darkness, forcing my breathing to slow, until I heard the terrace doors open and close, signaling their departure.
Only then did I move. My heels made no sound on the stone.
I didn't need to hear anymore. The puzzle was finished.
I wasn't heartbroken anymore. I was horrified. I had been sleeping next to a sociopath.
I slipped back into the ballroom, keeping my head down as I moved swiftly toward the private lounge where the guests left their coats and personal items. I needed my purse. I needed my phone. I needed to call Maya and initiate the "Livia" protocol we had joked about years ago.
I pushed open the door to the lounge.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Dante was there.
He was standing by the vanity, likely checking his reflection, but now he was holding a small, leather-bound book. My diary. The one I kept in my purse. The one where I had written down the contact info for a real estate agent in Seattle.
He looked up, his eyes narrowing.
"Planning a trip, Elena?"
He flipped the book open, his eyes scanning the page. "Seattle? What is in Seattle? It rains there. You hate rain."
He was reading my escape plan with the casual indifference of a man scanning the morning headlines.
"Give that to me," I said. My voice wasn't shaking. It was forged in steel.
"Why?" He smirked, taking a step toward me. "Are you running away? Is the game too hard for you?"
He thought this was still part of his plan. He thought I was cracking.
I looked at the diary. It contained the drafts of my new identity. Livia Moretti.
I didn't think. Instinct took the wheel.
I lunged forward.
Dante was fast, but he wasn't expecting me to attack. I wasn't trying to hurt him; I was reclaiming my life. I clawed for the book with both hands and yanked.
"It's not yours," I snarled, ripping it from his grip. "Nothing of mine is yours. Not anymore."
