Isabella POV:
The next day, we stood in the quiet, dusty living room of my father’s house. It was a mausoleum of memories, every photograph on the wall a fresh stab of grief. Dante stood beside me, his hand on the small of my back, a possessive, performative gesture for Valentina’s benefit.
“I’m surprised you two have gotten so close,” Dante said, his voice a low murmur meant only for me, but his eyes were tracking Valentina as she looked at my father’s old portraits. The question was laced with suspicion, with the possessiveness of a man who owned everything, including the relationships of the people around him.
“Grief is a strange bond,” I replied, my voice empty.
Valentina approached us, her expression genuinely somber. “Your father was a good man, Bella. An honorable associate of the family. I am so sorry for your loss.” She turned her gaze to Dante. “It’s good that you’re here for her. She needs you.”
The irony was so bitter it tasted like acid.
Dante’s face arranged itself into the perfect mask of a grieving, supportive husband. “Of course. My wife is my world. Especially now.”
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. Instead, I stood there, a silent, hollowed-out version of myself, and let the lies wash over me. This house wasn’t just the place my father had died. It was the place my marriage had been officially pronounced dead.
After an hour of stilted conversation, Dante suggested we go for lunch. We ended up at a small, upscale Italian restaurant in the city, a place the Morettis had owned for generations. A place loyalists came to broker deals under the guise of pasta and wine.
Dante and Valentina fell into their easy, familiar rhythm, their conversation weaving a tapestry of shared history that I had no part in. I realized with a sickening lurch that the stories Dante had told me about his childhood, the anecdotes I thought were special, intimate pieces of himself he had shared only with me—they were all recycled. They were his stories with *her*. I had been living a secondhand life.
The waiter, a man who had known Dante since he was a boy, came to take our order.
“The usual for you, Don Moretti?” he asked, then smiled at Valentina. “And the lady? Veal saltimbocca, extra sage?”
“You remembered,” Valentina said, smiling warmly.
Dante’s gaze was soft as he looked at her. He had remembered her favorite dish for over a decade. He still didn’t know I was allergic to shellfish.
Valentina, to her credit, seemed to notice my silence. “Bella, you haven’t ordered.”
Dante finally turned to me, his attention a reluctant afterthought. “What do you want, darling?”
“Just some plain broth,” I said quietly. “My stomach is still upset.”
His brow furrowed with that false concern. “You have to eat, for the baby’s sake.”
Before I could answer, a commotion erupted at the next table. A young, nervous busboy, his hands trembling, stumbled. A tureen of steaming hot soup flew through the air, heading straight for our table.
Everything happened in a split second. A blur of motion.
Dante moved like a predator. He lunged, not towards me, his pregnant wife, but towards Valentina. He threw his body in front of hers, shielding her completely, taking the brunt of the scalding liquid on his own back and arm.
I was left exposed.
The hot broth splashed across my arm and hand, a searing, shocking pain. I cried out, pulling my arm back, staring in disbelief as my skin instantly reddened and began to blister.
Dante didn't even look at me. He was fussing over Valentina, his hands checking her face, her arms. “Are you alright, Lena? Did any get on you?”
He shot a venomous glare at the terrified busboy, a look that promised a violent end. Then, his eyes flickered to me. It wasn’t a look of concern. It was annoyance. A flash of irritation that my cry had interrupted his moment with her.
In that single, horrifying moment, the last vestiges of my foolish hope died. He would let me burn to keep her safe. He didn't just not love me. He didn't see me. I was invisible.
The pain, the shock, the finality of that realization—it was too much. The world tilted, the edges of my vision going dark. The last thing I saw before I fainted was Dante’s face, his expression not one of worry for me, but of pure, unadulterated fury on Valentina’s behalf.
I woke up to the smell of antiseptic and the low murmur of voices. I was in a hospital room. Dante and Valentina were standing by the window, their backs to me.
A nurse with kind eyes walked in. “Mrs. Moretti. You’re awake. You have some nasty second-degree burns on your arm, but they’ll heal. You were lucky.”
She glanced at the chart. “The doctor also did an ultrasound, just to check on the baby given the shock…” Her voice trailed off, her expression turning to one of deep sympathy. “I’m so, so sorry, Mrs. Moretti. There was no heartbeat. You’ve lost the baby.”
The words hung in the air, a perfect, tragic lie.
My mind raced, seizing the opportunity, the perfect, heartbreaking excuse. This was it. This was my escape.
I looked at the nurse, my eyes pleading. “Please,” I whispered, my voice raspy. “Don’t tell my husband. Not yet. The shock… I can’t bear for him to know right now. Let me tell him myself, when I’m stronger.”
The nurse nodded, her eyes full of pity for the poor, tragic wife. “Of course, dear. I understand.”
I would use this fake tragedy. I would tell him I needed to recover, to grieve, somewhere quiet, away from the city. Away from him. And he, consumed by a flicker of guilt, would let me go. He would never know that our child, the one he wanted to shape into a monument for his obsession, was already gone, by my own hand.
