Chapter 2

The next morning, I was woken by a text.

I picked up my phone and saw a reservation confirmation—a booking at a restaurant on Coney Island. I'd reserved a private capsule on the Ferris wheel, the very spot where he first kissed me.

I froze, then instinctively reached for the nightstand drawer and pulled out the ring box hidden inside.

This was supposed to be my anniversary surprise—a proposal at the place where it all began with that first kiss.

I'd thought the only thing missing between us was someone making the first move. Looking back now, the truth was nothing short of cruel irony.

I squeezed the ring in my fist until the pain in my palm drowned out the deeper, duller ache in my chest. Then I walked to the window, uncurled my fingers, and watched it fall without a sound.

I stepped out of the bedroom and immediately spotted Dante in the kitchen.

"Morning." He slid a plate in front of me, his tone easy and intimate, as if last night had never happened. "Eat."

I looked down at the plate. Eggs sunny-side up. Toast done to a light crisp. Blueberry jam—my favorite. Three years, and he'd memorized every detail.

As the don of the Valentino family, Dante was ruthless and decisive in front of others. But with me, his tenderness was quiet as water, seeping into my life drop by drop. How could I not have been foolish enough to believe we'd be together forever?

I buried the anguish behind my eyes and forced my voice steady. "Dante. We're done."

His hand shot out and seized mine. The plate crashed to the floor, the sound of shattering porcelain cutting through the quiet kitchen.

"That is never going to happen."

I wrenched my hand free, my voice cracking. "You're getting married, Dante. Pick a day and come get your things."

"Not a chance." He backed me against the wall and leaned down to kiss me. I turned my head away. "Bella, unless I'm dead, you don't get to leave."

"You're planning to marry another woman. Why won't you just let me go?"

"I told you, it's only a contract—"

Before he could finish, his phone on the table buzzed violently.

Dante frowned and answered. When he hung up, the tension was written all over his face. "Bella, we'll talk when I get back. Until then, you are not to leave this apartment."

But I'd heard the voice on the other end—a woman, crying.

"In such a rush. Running off to comfort your fiancée?"

Dante stiffened. Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn't deny it. "Be good, Bella. I have to go. Wait for me. Here."

He was out the door before I could respond.

The door closed.

Then the lock clicked shut from the outside.

He'd locked me in.

I stared at that door for five seconds. Then I laughed.

He was marrying someone else, and he wouldn't even give me the freedom to leave.

I spent the next hour trying every way out. The front door, the balcony door, the fire escape—all locked. This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision. The keypad codes had been changed long ago, and I'd never noticed. He'd been preparing for this moment—while I still thought everything was fine, he'd already figured out how to make sure I couldn't walk away.

I stood there numbly, taking in the apartment I'd lived in for three years. It had started as a blank space and been filled, piece by piece, with traces of me and Dante. Every one of those traces marked what had once been my happiest moments.

A fine, needling pain threaded through my heart. Tears fell before I could stop them.

That was when Nina called.

"Bella, the Valentino Foundation press conference is at three this afternoon. I'll pick you up at two thirty."

I'd almost forgotten. A charity event for Dante's family. I was the spokesperson—I had to be there.

"Nina, Dante locked me in the apartment."

Two seconds of silence on the other end. "He what?"

"You heard me. I'm locked in. Come downstairs and pull the fire alarm. Security will have to open the door to check."

"Give me forty minutes."

I hung up and sat on the sofa to wait. My gaze drifted to the small silver frame on the coffee table—a photo from my first anniversary with Dante. I'd carried it around for months before moving in here, and it had sat in that same spot ever since.

I picked it up. The backing had always been loose. I'd never thought anything of it.

On impulse, I flipped the frame over and lifted the back panel. A photograph slid out and drifted onto my lap.

A photo of Dante and Serena.

His hands cradled her face. She was smiling—the smile of a woman utterly certain she was loved. And the way he looked at her—

A violent shudder ran through me. The frame slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a crack, glass shattering on impact.

It was as if all the strength drained out of me at once. I crumpled to the floor. My hand landed on the broken glass, and blood bloomed instantly.

I didn't feel it. With trembling fingers, I picked up the photograph and turned it over.

His handwriting. I knew it too well—every curve of every letter was familiar.

To my rose, Serena.

Rosa mia. So his rose had been Serena all along.

All those nights, when he murmured rosa mia against my ear—had he been thinking of her?

I felt a fist close around my heart and wrench it downward. Remembering Dante's so-called "contractual arrangement," I almost laughed out loud. Tears dropped onto the photograph, blurring the ink of his words.

Dante, how many lies have you told me?

The click of the lock snapped me back. I shoved the photo into my pocket, grabbed my bag, and ran.

Nina was waiting downstairs. I yanked open the car door and threw myself into the passenger seat.

She spotted the blood on my hand immediately. "Bella, what happened to your hand? Should we go to the hospital first?"

My eyes wavered for a moment. "I'm fine. Just drive."

Backstage, Nina bandaged the wound as best she could. I changed into the gown she'd brought and pulled on long gloves to cover the gauze.

When I walked to the side of the stage and saw the two people seated out front, I stopped dead.

Serena wore a white dress, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, sitting there like a proud swan. Dante was beside her in a dark suit, his cufflinks catching the cold light. The distance between them was so small.

So locking me up wasn't just about keeping me from running. It was about keeping me from seeing this.

The instant Dante noticed me, a flash of surprise crossed his eyes—he hadn't expected me here. But it lasted only half a second before his usual mask of indifference slid back into place.

It was Serena who spoke first, turning toward me with a small smile, her tone as warm as if she were greeting an old friend. "Isabella. It's been a while. You look wonderful today."

I sat down next to her. My seat was where it always was—at Dante's side. Close enough to be seen. Too far to be touched.

After I sat down, he didn't look at me.

Not once.

The host was talking about the foundation's new initiatives, its charitable goals. I didn't hear a single word. All I could hear was my own heartbeat, and beneath the gloves, the wound throbbing in time with it.

Then came the Q&A.

A reporter stood. "Mr. Valentino, is your engagement to Ms. Moretti a family arrangement or a love match?"

Another followed immediately. "Mr. Valentino, everyone assumed Ms. Romano was your girlfriend. So does that make Ms. Moretti the other woman?"

I watched Dante reach over and take Serena's hand. I watched him smile at her—an open, easy, unhidden smile.

"Serena and I have known each other since we were children," he said, his voice steady, without a trace of hesitation. "We were each other's first love. We were meant to be."

"There is no 'other woman.' Ms. Romano and I broke up three months ago. She's an ex. Nothing more."

The room went silent for a beat.

Then every pair of eyes turned to me.

Three months ago.

Last night he'd told me Serena meant nothing. Two days ago he'd been sleeping in my bed. A week ago I'd been secretly planning a proposal.

And he'd just told the world we broke up three months ago.

I couldn't stop shaking. My hand clenched involuntarily, and pain flared beneath the bandage.

A reporter called my name. "Ms. Romano! Is what Mr. Valentino said true? You broke up three months ago?"

I felt Dante's gaze land on me at last—the first time he'd looked at me the entire conference.

Not concern. Not remorse.

A warning.

He was waiting for me to play along. Waiting for me to do what I'd done for the past three years—be a good girl and perform the role he'd written for me.

I looked at him. At Serena's hand nestled in his. At this meticulously staged lie.

Three years of being the perfect actress. Today was the final take.

"Yes," I said softly, leaning toward the microphone with a faint smile. "We did break up."

Just not three months ago.

Starting now.