Chapter 3

The next morning, the mansion looked like a different house.

Not because the furniture moved.

Because the air did.

Celia’s perfume floated in every hallway like a claim. Flowers appeared where I’d never been allowed to place them. A child’s shoes sat by the staircase, small and smug.

My things were already in boxes.

Not neatly.

Not carefully.

Just… stacked. Like clutter someone finally decided to remove.

I walked past the balcony where I kept my plants.

It was empty.

No pots. No leaves. No green.

Someone had wiped the space clean, as if my presence had been a stain.

Dante stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching me take it in.

On the main wall above him hung a framed photograph.

Dante and Celia.

Smiling.

His hand at her waist.

A wedding portrait—professionally lit, expertly edited, designed to be believed.

My throat tightened.

I’d never gotten a photo with him. Not once. Not in two years of being his secret, his convenient warmth, his obedient body.

Dante stepped closer, too quick. “Those are fake,” he said. “Photoshopped. I never posed for anything.”

I stared at the suit in the picture.

The exact one I’d bought him three months ago.

The one he’d tossed on a chair like it offended him.

“It’s convincing,” I said.

Dante’s jaw flexed. “If you’re unhappy, I can tell her to stop.”

If he cared, he wouldn’t have married her.

He wasn’t offering comfort.

He was testing whether I’d still beg.

I lifted my gaze to his. “Helping people is a good thing. I’m not unhappy.”

His eyes narrowed, unsettled by my calm.

“Good,” he said sharply. “Then you’ll do this without drama.”

He motioned toward the door. “We’re going out.”

“Where?” I asked.

He hesitated, as if even saying the name would give it weight. “Vale Armory.”

My stomach dropped.

Vale Armory wasn’t a store.

It was a fortress disguised as luxury—where the city’s quiet monsters bought tools for loud decisions. And everyone knew the rule:

Only an heir’s recognized wife could step through the inner doors.

Dante looked at me, expression hard. “Celia needs a sidearm. She can’t get in.”

I stared. “So you’re bringing me.”

“It’s procedural,” he said. “Don’t make it emotional.”

I laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Everything you do is emotional, Dante. You just call it procedure.”

His eyes flashed. “Rina.”

I stepped closer, lowering my voice so the staff wouldn’t hear. “Does she know you’re using me as a key?”

He didn’t answer.

Which was an answer.

Dante leaned in, speaking through clenched teeth. “Get in the car.”

I followed—not because I was obedient.

Because I wanted to see exactly how far he would push me now that he’d legally replaced me.

And because the moment I stopped moving, my grief would catch up and drown me.

In the car, Dante kept his gaze forward.

“After this,” he said, like a man offering mercy, “things will be smooth. Don’t fight me. I’m trying to handle this cleanly.”

“Cleanly,” I repeated.

He glanced at me. “What?”

“You erased me from the house in one night,” I said quietly. “You married her behind my back. And now you’re bringing me to a place that only recognizes a wife… so your wife can shop.”

Dante’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” I said. “You just don’t like what it means.”

Vale Armory rose ahead—black stone, iron gates, discreet guards with eyes that didn’t miss anything.

As we pulled up, Dante’s phone buzzed.

He checked it, cursed once, then looked at me. “Don’t embarrass me in there.”

I smiled without warmth. “You don’t need my help to be ashamed.”

He stared at me for a long second.

Then he opened his door and walked into the lion’s den like he owned it.