After ten years with Lance Salvatore, I had long grown accustomed to being the silent shadow beside his throne.
But at a dress viewing for the annual family gala, his fingers traced my collarbone in front of his men, his touch a cold mockery as he declared me unworthy of becoming the matriarch of the Salvatore family. And in that moment, the volcano inside me finally erupted.
For ten years, I had belonged to the most feared man in Chicago—a handsome beast who would smother my talents, extinguish my passions, and have the audacity to call it "love."
The unique tattoos I designed for him were dismissed as “childish scribbles,” and my every breath felt tethered to his whims. And now, draped in priceless silk, he told me I wasn't even a worthy ornament. Under his scornful gaze, the tightrope of my obedience finally snapped.
My voice, trembling but sharp, finally bared its teeth. "Lance, if I'm so unworthy, why do you keep me chained to your side?"
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1
At the dress viewing, when I stepped out of the fitting room, even Lance's men let out hushed murmurs of admiration.
The tailor nodded, a look of deep satisfaction on his face. "Miss Rossi, you have such a tall, slender figure. This blood-red silk gown looks as if it were sculpted for you."
"You have to show your fiancé. The Don is going to be absolutely delighted."
I managed a faint smile. "I wouldn't be so sure. His standards are notoriously high."
I had been with Lance Salvatore for over a decade, and he always held me to impossibly harsh standards, never once offering a single word of praise.
But today, gazing in the mirror at my snow-white skin, my perfect curves, and how breathtaking I looked in this dress…
Maybe, just this once, Lance would approve. I dared to hope. Will he praise me? Tell me I’m beautiful? Will his eyes light up, the way other men’s do when they look at the women they love?
With that fragile fantasy blooming in my chest, I nervously touched his sleeve. The next second, it shattered.
Lance slowly turned, his gaze raking over me from head to toe. His first words were, "You still lack presence, Leann."
The smile on my face froze, and even the tailor beside me looked mortified.
"Your eyes are timid, your posture is stiff. There isn't a shred of authority in you. You can't carry a dress like this."
"Leann," he sighed coldly, "in this dress, you look nothing like the future matriarch of this family."
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room, clear enough for everyone to hear.
All eyes fell upon me—some pitying, some watching the spectacle, some gloating.
In that moment, I wasn't a person. I was merchandise on display for Lance’s inspection.
Tears welled in my eyes, and my chest felt so tight I could barely catch my breath.
To wear this dress, I had endured his grueling etiquette training. For four straight months, I spent nearly every day learning how to stand, how to smile, how to walk with grace. I’d lost eighteen pounds, all just to be worthy of standing beside him at the family gala.
Why did he still have to belittle me like this?
Perhaps the pressure of the past few months had left me emotionally raw, or perhaps the agony of my shattered hope was too acute.
Whatever the reason, in that instant, after a decade of silent endurance, I broke.
I ripped the diamond necklace from my throat and screamed at him for the first time, "Lance Salvatore, if I'm not good enough for your world, then let me go!"
"Fine! I don't look like a future Donna, so whoever wants the title can have it!"
Under Lance's stunned gaze, I took a ragged breath and finally voiced the words that had been circling in my mind for years.
"Lance, we're over."
My best friend, Marissa O'Malley, came to pick me up before my tears had even dried. The moment I changed my relationship status online, my phone blew up.
The most common question was: "Leann, was there some kind of misunderstanding with Don Lance?"
"He's so perfect. You'll regret leaving him for the rest of your life."
Even my own mother sided with him. "I spoke with Lance. It was such a small thing, Leann. Don't make a fuss."
Lance himself sent only four words: "Stop throwing a tantrum."
I stared at my phone, a profound sense of helplessness washing over me. No one understood.
After all, in everyone's eyes, Lance Salvatore was the perfect man.
He was handsome, brilliant, and wielded immense power. In our ten years together, he had never once strayed. But he had one devastating flaw: he took pleasure in crushing my spirit.
We grew up together. He was a natural-born leader, excelling at everything, and outshining me in every way.
However, fate is fair. Along with his gifts, it cursed him with a brutal family.
His mother died young. His father was a cold, ruthless man who rarely showed him affection, sparing him a glance only when Lance proved his worth to the family business.
