Isabella POV:
The clinic was sterile, cold, and anonymous. It was a place of quiet, private grief. I left a part of myself on that table, a ghost of a future that had been a lie. The physical ache in my womb was a dull, constant throb, but it was nothing compared to the hollow cavern that had opened in my soul. I was empty. It was a horrifying, liberating feeling.
To the world, and to Dante, I was a grieving wife, fragile from the loss of her father and resting to protect our precious unborn child. I played the part perfectly. I let him see me pale and withdrawn. I let him bring me soup and stroke my hair, his touch like spiders on my skin. He was a fool, blinded by his own magnificent ego. He saw what he wanted to see: a weak, dependent woman who was carrying his legacy.
While he was at his "business" meetings, which I now knew were meetings with Valentina, I began to systematically dismantle my life. I sold the jewelry he’d given me, piece by piece, converting diamonds into untraceable cash. I opened a new bank account under my mother’s maiden name. I researched small towns in California, places with sun and vineyards, places so far from the cold, gray shadow of the Moretti family that they might as well be on another planet.
Dante came back from a two-day trip to Chicago, another lie I didn't bother to question. He walked into the bedroom holding a small, velvet box.
“A little something to cheer you up,” he said, his voice laced with that practiced charm.
Inside was a diamond necklace, cold and heavy. A bribe. A leash.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice flat. I let him clasp it around my neck, its weight a familiar burden.
A sharp cramp seized my abdomen, a lingering ghost from the procedure. I bit my lip to keep from wincing. He didn't notice. He was too busy looking at my neck, admiring how his property looked on his possession.
Then my phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up with a name that made my blood run cold.
Valentina.
My heart hammered against my ribs. It was a mix of things—anger, disgust, and a strange, morbid curiosity.
Before I could decide whether to answer, Dante’s eyes locked on the screen. A flicker of something—hunger, longing—crossed his face. He snatched the phone from the table before I could react.
“Valentina,” he answered, his voice instantly changing, becoming warmer, more alive. He turned his back to me, walking toward the window as if to create a private world for just the two of them.
“Yes… of course. Tonight?” He laughed, a low, intimate sound he had never used with me. “I’ll clear my schedule. The gallery event at seven? I’ll be there.”
I watched his reflection in the dark glass of the window. I saw the eagerness in his posture, the way his shoulders relaxed, the genuine smile that touched his lips. He was a different man when he spoke to her. He was the man I thought I had married.
He hung up and turned back to me, the mask of the doting husband sliding perfectly back into place.
“That was just Valentina,” he said, as if I hadn’t heard. “My mother is hosting a small family dinner at the Hamptons estate tonight. For the gallery opening. She insists we go. It’s important to keep up appearances, for the Family.”
Appearances. Our entire marriage was an appearance.
I said nothing. My silence was a shield, and he was too arrogant to see it as anything but submission.
The Hamptons estate was a monument to Moretti power, a sprawling mansion of stone and glass overlooking the unforgiving Atlantic. The air was thick with the scent of old money and unspoken violence.
As we walked in, Dante pressed a beautifully wrapped gift into my hands. It was a rare, first-edition photography book.
“Give this to Valentina from us,” he said. “She’ll love it.”
I knew, without a doubt, that he had bought it for her. I recognized the artist. It was her favorite, a fact she’d mentioned months ago at a family brunch. A detail Dante had remembered, while he routinely forgot how I took my coffee.
Valentina greeted us at the door, a vision in a silk dress that shimmered like oil on water. She was beautiful, poised, and exuded a confidence that came from a lifetime of privilege and power.
“Dante, Bella,” she said, kissing the air by our cheeks.
“From us,” Dante said smoothly, gesturing to the gift in my hands as I offered it to her. He lied so easily.
Valentina’s eyes lit up as she unwrapped it. “Oh, Dante, you remembered.” She looked at him, a shared, secret smile passing between them. It was a look that spoke of a history I was not a part of. In that moment, I wasn’t his wife. I was an intruder, a spectator to their private play.
“I’m leaving for the London office next month,” she announced to the room at large. “Permanently.”
A small, selfish flare of relief went through me. It would be easier with her gone.
I caught her eye across the room. “London is a big move,” I said, my voice quiet but clear. “I hope you find what you’re looking for there. Sometimes you have to cross an ocean to get away from a monster.”
A flicker of understanding crossed her face. For a second, I thought she saw me. Truly saw me.
Dinner was torture. Dante sat between me and Valentina, but he might as well have been on another continent. He spoke exclusively to her, their conversation a rapid-fire exchange of inside jokes and shared memories. He knew her favorite wine, remembered a story from her childhood, and debated the merits of a new artist with a passion he never showed for my own photography.
The waiter served the main course—a rich, creamy pasta. My doctor had advised a bland diet for a few days. Dante, who supposedly cherished my health for the sake of our child, didn’t notice. He was too busy making sure Valentina’s steak was cooked exactly to her liking.
The numbness that had protected me for days began to harden, crystallizing into something cold, sharp, and unbreakable. My resolve.
