4

Chapter 4

We ended up at a nearby bar.

Sofia tried to keep me talking, tried to force anger out of me like it would prove I was still alive, still fighting.

But I felt hollow in a way I couldn't explain. Like something had finally died quietly and politely, without asking permission. Like the part of me that had been clinging to hope had finally let go.

After two drinks, I stepped outside for air.

A few feet away, a black car door shut.

I looked up.

Dante was there.

He stopped in front of me and glanced down, his presence washing over me out of habit.

"You should go home," he said. "I'll drive you."

There was no concern in his voice. Just closure, like he was ticking off a responsibility, completing a duty.

"I'm fine," I said.

He sighed. "Elena, don't make this harder than it needs to be."

His eyes narrowed, annoyance flashing through them. He reached for my arm anyway, trying to pull me toward the car, trying to use his strength to simply move me where he wanted.

I jerked away, my hidden strength rising to resist him.

Dante's patience snapped.

"Enough," he said sharply, his voice carrying command. "You're being childish."

"You wanted to break the engagement, I gave you a way back, and you still won't take it." His voice rose, frustration bleeding through. "I went out for one meal because I'm stressed, and you show up like you're tracking me. You're suffocating, Elena."

I almost laughed at the audacity.

Then Isabella's heels clicked softly as she approached us, her presence deliberately sweetened, soothing.

"Dante," she said in a gentle voice, "why are you being so harsh with her?"

His posture changed instantly. His face softened, like someone flicked a switch, his instincts responding to her distress.

Isabella turned to me, smiling politely, her expression perfectly calibrated. "Elena... don't misunderstand. I told him I wasn't feeling well, so he came to have dinner with me. To comfort me."

She tilted her head, sweetness sharpened by calculation. "Dante has a rule when he's with me. He doesn't acknowledge other women. Even potential fiancées. So... if he seemed cold, it wasn't personal."

She reached up and lightly touched Dante's cheek, playful and intimate, her presence wrapping around him.

"And you," she teased him, her voice carrying that perfect sweetness, "you're usually so gentle with me. Why do you have no patience for Elena?"

Dante's ears flushed red, responding to her touch.

"That's fine," I said, my voice steady despite the pain. "He's clearly where he wants to be."

I looked at Isabella.

"I hope you're very happy," I added. "He's all yours."

A rideshare pulled up to the curb—my app notification chimed like mercy.

I got in without looking back, without giving them another moment of my attention.

That night, I noticed something missing.

The folder of application materials I'd submitted to the Moretti family—my complete strategy portfolio, my research on territorial expansion, my recommendation letters from other families—was supposed to be returned within three months.

It hadn't been.

I called Family Administration.

The woman on the phone sounded confused. "We don't have anything from you, Miss Castellano. The file shows you didn't submit supplemental materials."

A cold pit opened in my stomach.

The next day, Dante posted a photo on the organization's social platform from a high-profile business conference.

Isabella stood beside him, smiling that perfect smile.

And under her name were my credentials—my published research on territorial negotiations, my trial results, my strategic outcomes—listed as hers.

Every line.

A perfect copy.

My hands shook as I scrolled through the post.

They were too powerful. Too well-connected. People would believe them without question.

They had taken my work and dressed her in it like a borrowed coat, like stolen credentials.

I stared at the screen until it stopped looking real.

Then I packed.

Not slowly this time.

Fast.

I left the apartment before sunrise and drove straight to Castellano territory, to my father's estate.

And weeks later—on the day Isabella Romano was scheduled to oversee her "first major negotiation," the Family offices buzzed like they were hosting visiting royalty.

Not because of Isabella.

Because Dante Moretti, the heir, had agreed to stand beside her as her assisting advisor and protector.

And because her supervising consultant—the senior strategist brought in to oversee protocol compliance—was rumored to be the only person in the region Dante couldn't intimidate.

I arrived at the Moretti Family offices in a black suit, calm as steel.

Dante saw me in the corridor outside the conference room and his face darkened immediately, his presence flaring with surprise and anger.

"Elena," he snapped. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm mentoring Isabella," he added quickly, as if explaining everything. "Don't start something here. This is business, not your stage for drama."

I didn't answer.

I walked past him, my own hidden authority rising to meet his dominance without submission.

Into the preparation room.

Straightened my jacket.

Checked my watch.

Then I stepped into the conference suite—not as staff.

As the supervising consultant they had called in to lead.

I reviewed my notes, methodical.

Adjusted my chair.

And when I entered the room, Don Salvatore was waiting, along with several family advisors.

He straightened as soon as he saw me, recognition flashing in his eyes.

His voice held unmistakable respect.

"Miss Castellano," he said.

"Thank you for coming."

I stepped to the head of the table, my heir status invisible but undeniable in my bearing.

My eyes flicked to Dante. To Isabella.

Then I spoke, calm and clear.

"Alright," I said. "Let's begin."