Elara POV:
"I'm leaving him."
The words felt foreign on my tongue, spoken over the phone to my old architecture professor. She didn't sound surprised.
"Good," was all she said. "Your portfolio is still the most brilliant I've ever seen. The world needs your buildings, Elara. Where will you go?"
"Somewhere new," I said, a spark of something I hadn't felt in years igniting in the hollow of my chest. "I'm starting my own firm."
In the days that followed, I turned an unused wing of the sprawling, cold estate into a vibrant studio. I unrolled my old blueprints, the passion I had sacrificed to be the perfect Don's wife flooding back into me. The scent of graphite and paper was like coming home.
On our third wedding anniversary-a date the entire Chicago Outfit acknowledged-Dante found me there, sketching, my world narrowed to the page. He stood in the doorway for a long time, watching me.
"I'm relaunching my career," I told him without looking up. "I won't be available to host your business dinners anymore."
A flicker of something-annoyance? surprise?-crossed his face. "Of course," he said, the support in his voice hollow. "It's good for you to have a hobby."
A hobby. The word wasn't just a dismissal-it was a pat on the head. I almost asked him then if he'd support a divorce, but his phone rang. He disappeared into his study. I heard her voice, sharp and demanding, even through the thick oak door.
That evening, he surprised me.
"Get dressed," he said. "We're going to dinner." A rare gesture. A peace offering for my "hobby," perhaps.
He dropped me at the entrance of a lavish new restaurant, a Moretti acquisition, while he went to park his car. The valet rushed to open my door.
When Dante returned, he was holding a small, elegantly wrapped designer gift box and a massive bouquet of pink roses. A wild, foolish hope flared to life in my chest. He handed them to me.
"Happy anniversary," he murmured, his eyes unreadable.
Just then, Isabella appeared at the restaurant's entrance, a vision in red. She sauntered toward Dante, her hand landing possessively on his arm.
"Dante, darling, you came." She turned to me, her smile pure saccharine. "You must be Elara. Dante talks so much about his... arrangement."
Before I could react, Dante took the gift box from my hands and gave it to Isabella.
"A small token for your grand opening," he said, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. Then, he plucked the bouquet from my grasp. "And flowers for the new proprietress."
Isabella gasped with delight, burying her face in the roses. "Oh, Dante! You remembered! This specific florist, the exact shade of pink I love!"
The hope that had flared in my chest didn't just die. It was doused in gasoline and set ablaze.
The gifts, the dinner, the entire evening-it was all for her.
I was just the delivery service.
