Elena POV
The bell above the door chimed—a cheerful, tinkling sound that felt entirely discordant with the dread settling in my stomach.
I stepped into the boutique, immediately hit by the cloying scent of lavender and the crisp smell of new fabric.
Dante stalked in behind me.
He was pacing before the door even closed, checking his watch with a sharp flick of his wrist.
He radiated a dark, restless impatience.
He loathed waiting.
He loathed anything that didn't bend immediately to his will.
I walked to the counter, keeping my spine stiff.
"I'm here for the fitting," I said to the seamstress.
She smiled, though the expression was brittle.
Everyone was nervous around Dante.
"Of course, Miss Vitiello. And Mr. Moretti, your tuxedo is ready as well."
Dante let out a harsh sigh.
He stripped off his coat in one fluid, aggressive motion.
He tossed it at me without looking.
It struck me square in the face.
The heavy wool scratched against my cheek, blinding me for a second.
Then, the scent of vanilla suffocated me.
It wasn't his coat.
I peeled the fabric away from my face.
It was a woman's coat.
Camel hair. A petite cut.
Sofia's.
"You are careless," Dante snapped, not even glancing at me. "Hold it properly. Don't wrinkle it."
He thought it was mine.
He thought he was throwing my own property at me with such disdain.
I looked down at the soft material in my hands.
"This isn't mine," I said.
Dante froze.
He turned back slowly, his eyes narrowing into slits.
He looked at the coat.
Then he looked at me.
His expression shifted instantly.
The annoyance evaporated, replaced by a gentle, sickening recognition.
He walked over and took the coat from my hands.
He didn't snatch it.
He handled it with reverence, as if it were made of spun glass.
He folded it over his arm, his thumb absentmindedly smoothing the fabric.
"Right," he muttered, his voice dropping. "It's hers."
He didn't apologize.
He just protected the coat.
He protected her coat with more ferocity than he had protected me at the Gala.
"Go put on the dress," he ordered, his tone turning cold again. "I don't have all day."
I retreated into the fitting room.
I slipped into the gown.
It was objectively beautiful.
It was supposed to be my armor.
I stepped out onto the pedestal.
Dante was already waiting, clad in his tuxedo.
He looked like a king.
A dark, dangerous king.
He assessed me in the mirror, his gaze flat.
His lip curled.
"It's too much," he said.
"It's the style," I said, my voice hollow.
"It's tacky," he said. "You look desperate. Like you're trying too hard to be seen."
I stood there.
Frozen.
"Take a picture," I said to the seamstress, staring straight ahead. "For the file."
Dante groaned.
"Fine. One picture."
He stepped up beside me.
He didn't touch me.
He stood with his hands buried in his pockets, looking utterly bored.
The camera flashed.
Then, his phone rang.
A specific, personalized ringtone.
He moved away from me instantly, as if I were contagious.
"Piccola?" he answered.
His voice was soft.
Tender.
"I know," he said into the phone, turning his back to me. "I have it. I'm keeping it safe. Don't cry. I'm coming."
He hung up.
He didn't bother changing out of the tuxedo.
He grabbed Sofia's coat, clutching it close.
"I have to go," he said. "Sofia is distressed. She lost her coat."
"You're leaving me here?" I asked, disbelief coloring my tone.
"Take a taxi," he said over his shoulder. "And burn that dress. It's hideous."
The door chimed again.
And then he was gone.
The seamstress looked at me with pity.
I hated pity.
"Miss?" she asked softly. "Should I pack it up?"
I looked at the gown in the mirror.
White silk.
Intricate lace.
A lie.
"Do you have scissors?" I asked.
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
I spotted a pair of heavy fabric shears on the counter.
I stepped off the pedestal.
I picked them up.
The steel felt cold and heavy in my grip.
"Miss Vitiello, that is imported silk—"
I drove the scissors into the skirt.
The sound of ripping fabric filled the silent shop—a violent, satisfying tear.
I cut.
I slashed.
I destroyed the lace bodice.
I destroyed the train.
I destroyed the false hope.
I stepped out of the ruins of the dress, leaving the white shreds on the floor like dead skin.
"Put it on his bill," I said.
