Elena POV
The next evening, the silence of my apartment was shattered when my phone rang.
It was Sofia.
"He's hurt," she screamed, her voice piercing, shrill and panicked. "Ambush. The Sapphire Lounge. He's asking for you."
Panic eclipsed my pride.
It swallowed the betrayal whole.
I ran.
I couldn't feel my feet hitting the pavement. I was fueled by pure, blind terror.
My lungs burned as if I were inhaling fire.
I burst through the heavy double doors of the Sapphire Lounge, expecting blood.
Expecting chaos.
Instead, I found a party.
Heavy bass thumped against the walls, vibrating in my chest.
Acrid smoke filled the air.
And there, on a velvet throne in the center of the VIP section, sat Dante.
He was holding a glass of scotch, unharmed.
Spotless.
Immaculate.
Sofia sat on the arm of his chair, laughing.
The music cut out.
The room went dead silent.
Dante looked up, feigning confusion.
"Elena?"
Sofia stood up, clapping her hands slowly.
"Look how fast she runs," she announced to the room of soldiers and made-men, her voice dripping with venom. "Like a loyal little dog coming to the whistle."
It was a test.
A game.
She wanted to see if I was still broken enough to care.
And I was.
Something inside me snapped.
Not a bone.
But the tether that held my sanity.
I grabbed a bottle of Macallan 25 from the nearest table and swung it against the granite bar.
Glass exploded.
Amber liquid sprayed everywhere like shrapnel.
A shard flew across the room and grazed Sofia's cheek.
A thin line of red appeared on her perfect skin.
She screamed.
Dante moved with the speed of a predator.
He was on me in a second, his hand gripping my throat, slamming me into the floor with bone-crushing force.
"Are you insane?" he roared, his face inches from mine, his eyes wild with rage. "She is the future Queen! You could have killed her!"
I lay on the wet floor, soaked in scotch and shame, gasping for air, staring up at him.
"I wish I had," I wheezed.
He tightened his grip.
My hand flailed, and the heavy iron bangle I had worn for two years clattered against the floor.
Dante looked at it.
His expression changed from rage to something darker.
Something superstitious.
"You never take that off," he hissed.
"You told me it was for protection," I whispered, my voice barely a rasp.
He laughed.
It was a sound of pure madness.
"Protection?" He stood up, towering over me. "It's a Malocchio anchor, you stupid girl. My grandmother made it."
He pointed to Sofia, who was dabbing at her scratch with a napkin.
"Sofia was born sickly," Dante said, his voice cold and factual. "The bangle... it drains the wearer's luck. It drains their vitality. It acts as a filter."
He looked down at me with disgust.
"I made you wear it to catch the poison," he said. "So she could be healthy. You aren't just a placeholder, Elena. You're the sacrifice."
The room spun.
My disease.
The weakness.
The tremors.
It wasn't just bad genetics.
I had been carrying her curse on my wrist for two years because he loved her enough to kill me slowly.
"Get her out of here," Dante commanded his guards, turning back to Sofia. "She's served her purpose."
Two men grabbed my arms and dragged me out the back door.
I didn't fight.
I stared at Dante as he held Sofia's face, checking her scratch with a tenderness he had never shown me.
I was the filter.
And now that I was full of poison, I was being poured down the drain.
