Chapter 1

Seven years after my divorce from Dante Caruso, I ran into him in a flower shop.

He was there buying flowers for his pregnant wife.

I was only there because it was raining.

After a few awkward seconds, we greeted each other like strangers, pretending there wasn’t a whole graveyard of hatred standing between us.

Dante asked how I’d been all these years.

I told him I was doing well.

Then, just as we were about to part, he suddenly said—

“Elena… you look different now.”

I smiled, but I didn’t answer.

There was nothing different about me.

I just didn’t love him anymore.

…

The wind slipped through the crack of the shop door, cold and damp.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the rain tapping against the window.

Then the florist came out holding a bouquet of irises and broke the silence with a bright smile.

“Mr. Caruso, you’re such a devoted husband.”

“Coming out in weather like this just to buy flowers for your wife… now that’s real love.”

Dante took the bouquet and glanced at me almost instinctively, like he needed to explain himself.

“Nora’s been emotionally unstable during the pregnancy,” he said. “Flowers help calm her down.”

I nodded and gave him a polite smile.

“That’s thoughtful.”

The rain outside had already started to let up.

I picked up my bag and headed for the door.

Just as I was about to leave, Dante suddenly caught my wrist.

“I’ll drive you home.”

I pulled my hand away immediately and put some distance between us.

“No need.”

My voice was calm. Flat. Clean.

“I wouldn’t want your wife getting the wrong idea.”

Then I turned and walked out before he could say anything else.

Maybe he did say something.

The wind was too loud. I didn’t hear it.

The cheap breakfast I’d bought on the way had already been ruined by the rain.

What a waste.

I tossed it into the trash by the curb.

Just then, a gust of wind pushed up my sleeve and exposed the faded white scars on my wrist.

I froze for a second.

Then I remembered.

This was the seventh year since my divorce from Dante Caruso.

And the third year since I had truly let him go.

No heartbreak.

No ugly breakdown.

No urge to scream.

I looked at him the same way I’d look at any stranger on the street.

The rain stopped.

I tugged my sleeve back down and walked toward the little breakfast shop.

The moment I stepped inside, Mia, the girl who worked there, grinned and waved me over.

“Elena, finally. I found a box while cleaning out the storage room.”

She dragged it closer and wiped the dust off the lid.

“Take a look. If you don’t want it, I’m throwing it out. We need the space for the new dough mixer.”

I bent down and brushed the dust away.

Across the top of the box, in a sharp, arrogant handwriting I would recognize even if I were blind, were three words:

For Elena.

Mia’s eyes lit up immediately.

“Ooh. Who’s this from?”

She leaned closer, all curiosity as usual.

“Just the packaging alone looks expensive. Whoever gave this to you really put in the effort.”

Then she looked at the signature.

And froze.

Her eyes widened.

“No way.”

She looked at me, then back at the name.

“Dante Caruso?”

Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

“Wait—Dante Caruso? That Dante Caruso?”

“The Dante Caruso everyone in this city knows? The Caruso heir? The one the papers keep calling both a genius and a monster?”

She stared at me like I’d suddenly grown a second head.

“Elena… who the hell are you?”

I opened the box. My voice stayed calm.

“I’m Dante Caruso’s ex-wife.”

The crazy ex-wife.

The paranoid ex-wife.

The stain on his perfect reputation.

The woman he locked away in a private psychiatric facility and called the biggest mistake of his life.