Seraphina POV
The drive home was silent.
The partition was up, separating us from the driver, but the distance between us on the leather seat felt like an ocean.
Dante scrolled through his phone, utterly unbothered. He radiated a calm arrogance, the confidence of a man who believed he owned the world and everything in it-including me.
"She provoked me," I said.
I broke the silence because the pressure in my chest was going to kill me if I didn't let some of it out.
"You made a scene," Dante said without looking up. "You are the Donna. You are supposed to be above that."
"She slapped me, Dante."
He finally looked at me. His eyes were dark pools, devoid of light.
"And you slammed her face into a mirror. I think you got your pound of flesh, Seraphina. Let it go."
"Let it go?" I laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "She is your mistress. Everyone saw her. Everyone knows. Do you have any respect for me at all?"
Dante sighed, rubbing his temples. He looked annoyed, like I was a child complaining about a broken toy.
"Valeria is useful," he said coldly. "She understands the business. She relieves stress. It doesn't mean anything. You are my wife. You carry my name. That should be enough for you."
"It's not enough," I whispered.
"Then make it enough," he snapped.
His hand shot out, grabbing my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his. His grip was hard, bruising.
"You are mine, Seraphina. You exist because I allow it. You live in luxury because I provide it. Don't confuse your position. You are here to look pretty and give me heirs. Do not question how I run my life."
He let go of my face and turned back to the window.
I touched the spot where his fingers had dug in. My skin felt hot.
He didn't see a partner. He didn't see a person. He saw property.
When we got to the penthouse, he went straight to his study. He didn't apologize. He didn't try to comfort me. He simply poured himself a scotch and closed the door.
I retreated to the guest room. I couldn't sleep in our bed. The sheets would smell like him, and tonight, he smelled like her.
I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark. My phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number.
He loves me. He's only with you for the politics. Give up, Princess.
Attached was a photo. It was taken inside this penthouse. In my kitchen. Valeria was wearing one of Dante's shirts.
I stared at the image. The time stamp was from two days ago.
While I was visiting my mother's grave, she was in my house, wearing my husband's clothes, drinking from my mugs.
I didn't cry. I was done crying.
I walked to the window and looked out at the city lights. It was a beautiful view. A view worth killing for.
I needed a plan. Matteo was right. I couldn't just run. If I ran, I was prey.
I needed to stop being the prey. I needed to become the hunter.
