I had become a ghost in my own home.
Dante was rarely there. He claimed he was handling "territory disputes" in the South Side, a vague enough excuse to satisfy the soldiers, but not me. I knew exactly where he was.
I broke the first rule of sanity: I looked.
I created a burner account on Instagram with trembling fingers. I searched for Isobel de Luca. Her profile was public. Of course it was. She wanted to be seen. She wanted to be known.
There was a photo from last night.
It was a dinner table set for a family. The De Luca matriarch was there, looking regal and approving. And next to her, cutting a piece of steak, was Dante.
He looked relaxed. His jacket was off, draped carelessly over the chair. He was smiling at something Isobel was saying. His hand was resting on the back of her chair.
It wasn't just a casual placement. It was a possessive gesture. A protective gesture.
He looked like he belonged there.
I scrolled down. Another photo. Dante's hand resting on her barely-there bump. The caption read: Protecting the future.
I felt bile rise in my throat, sour and hot.
He had never touched me like that. With me, his touch was heavy. It was a claim of ownership, a reminder of duty and contracts. With her, it looked... soft.
He was capable of warmth. Just not with me.
I put the phone down before I could throw it. I went to the bar in the living room and poured myself a glass of vodka. I didn't even like vodka. It tasted like antiseptic cleaning fluid. But I needed to burn the image out of my head.
I drank it in one swallow. Then another.
My phone pinged. It was the group chat with my civilian friends. The ones who thought Dante was a "logistics consultant" with a busy travel schedule.
Bridesmaid fitting next week! So excited!
I typed quickly, my vision blurring.
Wedding is off. Don't ask. Please respect my privacy.
I blocked the notifications before the explosion of questions could hit me. I couldn't handle their happiness. I couldn't handle their normalcy.
The front door opened.
It was 2:00 AM.
Dante walked in. He stopped dead when he saw me sitting on the sofa in the dark.
He sniffed the air. His nose wrinkled in immediate distaste.
"You've been drinking," he said. It wasn't an observation. It was an accusation.
"I had two glasses," I said, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears.
"You smell like a distillery," he snapped. He took a step back, as if my scent was contagious. As if I was dirty.
"Isobel can't be around strong smells," he said, his tone clinical. "It triggers her nausea."
I laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound that scraped against my throat.
"Isobel isn't here, Dante."
"I'm seeing her in the morning," he said, brushing past me. "I can't smell like cheap vodka. It's disrespectful to the mother of my heir."
Disrespectful.
He was worried about offending her nose while he shattered my life.
"Go shower," he ordered. "You're embarrassing yourself."
I stood up. The room spun slightly, but I steadied myself against the arm of the sofa.
"I'm not the one who should be embarrassed," I said.
He narrowed his eyes, his patience evaporating. "We need to have a Sit Down, Nina. We need to discuss the logistics of the christening."
The christening. The baby wasn't even born yet.
"There's nothing to discuss," I said.
I walked past him. I went into the guest bathroom and locked the door. I turned the shower on as hot as it would go.
I scrubbed my skin until it was red. I wanted to wash off the vodka. I wanted to wash off the last twenty years.
I wanted to wash off him.
