I said nothing, just listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing until dawn.
My phone vibrated. A calendar reminder from the tattoo artist.
I quickly dimmed the screen, but the movement stirred Dante awake beside me.
"Elara, get up. We're going to get the tattoo."
Our eyes met. My face was sallow and gaunt from a sleepless night.
A flash of disgust crossed his eyes.
"Why do you look so haggard? You could learn a thing or two from Isabella. She's always bursting with energy."
He paid no mind to my feelings and turned to go to the bathroom.
I spoke to his retreating back.
"Dante, I don't want the tattoo anymore."
"Dante, let's get a divorce."
He didn't break his stride, disappearing into the bathroom.
A few moments later, he sauntered back toward me, clearly not taking me seriously.
"Elara, why aren't you up yet?"
"Hurry up. I don't have all day. I have a ten o'clock meeting to clean up another one of Isabella's messes."
He walked to my side and leaned in, planting a perfunctory kiss on my lips.
My heart turned to stone. I bit down hard on his lower lip, tasting blood.
The metallic tang spread through our mouths. He straightened up, a hand flying to his lip in pain.
"I said," I repeated, my voice flat, "let's get a divorce."
His expression turned ugly, his face a mask of disbelief.
After all, for the past ten years, I had played the role of the calm, proper Mrs. Volkov, my temper worn smooth long ago.
He expected me to be obedient, without a single shred of defiance.
He dabbed at his bleeding lip, his eyes blazing with fury.
"We've been married for ten years. What are you terminating? Did you find a better backer than me?"
"Stop being irrational. You're not a naive girl anymore, and the Moretti family is a shadow of its former self. A divorce? Have you truly considered the consequences?"
Yes, my looks had faded, and my family's glory was a thing of the past.
He knew this was my weakest point, yet he stomped on it without a shred of mercy.
"Stop messing around. Get dressed. We're getting the tattoo. I don't have time to waste on this."
He looked impatient, as if gracing me with his company was an act of charity.
He always put Isabella and his business first.
Youth was her license to do as she pleased.
Too many times, she had used "not knowing the rules" as an excuse for crossing the line, and Dante never said no.
He always insisted it was a necessary part of controlling his pawn.
Seeing that I wasn't moving, he yanked me out of bed and roughly shoved me toward the door.
He floored the accelerator the moment we were in the car, and my whole world spun.
Before I could recover, he had dragged me into the studio of the city's most famous tattoo artist.
The assistants inside greeted him warmly. It seemed he was a regular.
Just as the artist was about to begin, a familiar voice called from the doorway.
"Dante, I'm here."
Isabella appeared out of nowhere.
"I heard you were here, so I rushed over. I got injured, and it might leave a scar. I need you to cover it up."
She spoke coquettishly, completely ignoring my presence.
She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a fresh scar on her forearm.
"Dante, tattoo your initial on me. Brand me as yours. Then no one will ever dare to touch me again."
Her gaze, when it met mine, was pure provocation.
Before I could say a word, Dante had already agreed.
"Elara, her situation is urgent. You wait. I'll take care of her first, and then we'll get yours done."
He didn't wait for my answer, pulling Isabella to sit in the chair meant for me.
I looked down and saw that my pristine white sleeve was already stained crimson from another nosebleed.
My last shred of hope crumbled to ash.
I took a black card from my bag, placed it on the table, and turned to leave.
I hailed a cab to the hospital. I had only taken a few steps from the curb when my vision went black, and I collapsed to the ground.
The paramedics put me on a stretcher and rushed me to my personal physician.
He looked at my test results, his expression grim.
"Your emotional distress has been too great. The cancer cells are spreading aggressively. It's... beyond our control now."
He let out a heavy, defeated sigh, his head dropping.
My nose wouldn't stop bleeding.
My phone was vibrating nonstop. It was Dante.
My fingertips trembled. I no longer had the strength to answer.
The doctor saw my pained expression, his face filled with pity, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
He took me to a quiet, private room. It was empty, not a soul in sight.
Only a sterile white ceiling above.
Every bone in my body felt like it had been dismantled and reassembled. The pain was so intense it had become a dull, all-encompassing numbness.
I closed my eyes, and the last ten years of my life flashed before them.
I took out my phone, my gaze falling on the black rose tattoo sketch we had designed together.
I forced a smile.
The phone's screen froze on that image.
I died full of regrets.
