Chapter 2

"Understood." Dante's voice paused on the line. "One more thing. Your father wants you at the Metropolitan Museum charity gala tomorrow night. Representing the family."

"Fine." The moment I hung up, Marco's text came through.

Baby, gotta handle some business upstate for a couple days. Miss you already.

I stared at the screen, Bianca's voice playing in my head—those moans, those gasps. Each one a needle straight through my chest. Part of me wondered if he'd been in her bed every night for the past five years while I waited for him in mine.

The next evening, I showed up at the gala in a navy silk gown that cost more than most people's cars. The Romano name alone was enough to turn heads, but I made sure they remembered.

I bid two hundred grand on a Basquiat. Then stood up and announced a five-million-dollar donation to establish an arts foundation for underprivileged kids in Red Hook and Bed-Stuy.

The applause was thunderous. Cameras flashed. Every eye in the room fixed on me—some envious, some calculating, all of them recalibrating who I was and what I represented.

This was what my father wanted. The first move in reclaiming my place.

I was talking to the museum director when I heard it. That voice that made my spine lock up.

"Mr. Castellano, let me introduce you to the genius behind the Red Hook waterfront development. Bianca Vitale."

I turned slowly.

Marco stood there, arm around Bianca. He was supposed to be upstate. Instead he was here, presenting my project—the one I'd spent eighteen months building from nothing—as hers.

Heat flooded my veins. I picked up my champagne and walked over, my heels clicking on marble.

"Marco." My voice came out steady, almost curious. "The pier foundation engineering—those load calculations took how long? Three weeks? Four?"

I shifted my gaze to Bianca. Her face had gone white. "Maybe Miss Vitale can walk Mr. Castellano through the soil compaction tests. Since public safety is on the line and all."

Marco's jaw clenched. Bianca's mouth opened and closed like a fish.

Castellano looked between us, his brow furrowing.

"Val, I—" Marco grabbed my wrist, hard enough to bruise.

He dragged me behind a massive marble column, out of sight.

"Don't do this here," he hissed, sweat beading at his temples. "Please. You know how my parents are—they only trust Bianca with family business. I had to give her the credit to get them to approve us. This is for our future."

The same excuse. Always the same bullshit about our "future" while he stole my work and stomped on my dignity.

Disgust churned in my gut. But I didn't let it show. I dropped my eyes, let my lashes cast shadows on my cheeks. Played the role he expected.

"For... our future?" My voice trembled just enough.

"I swear, this is the last time." His grip loosened, desperation creeping in. "After the wedding, everything changes. I promise."

Then Bianca appeared, looping her arm through his. She pressed close, made sure I saw. "Marco, I'm so dizzy. Can we get some air? I don't feel good."

Her eyes met mine. Triumphant.

Marco looked between us, torn for maybe half a second.

"Go ahead," I said, voice soft. "I'm fine."

He hesitated—guilt flickering across his face—but Bianca was already pulling him away.

I watched them disappear into the crowd. Felt nothing but hollow space where my heart used to be.

Every anniversary he'd ditched me. Every time she called and he ran. The night I had the flu and he left me shaking with fever because she had a "nightmare."

I'd told myself it was family loyalty. Brotherly concern.

I'd been so goddamn stupid.

I made myself stay until the end of the gala. Smiled for photos. Made small talk. The Romano heir couldn't fall apart in public.

When I finally got to my car, my phone lit up.

Bianca: Want to know who he really loves? Penthouse suite at the Plaza. Room 2801. Hurry, you might miss the show.

My fingers tightened around the phone.

The Plaza's top floor was all thick carpet and hushed luxury. I stood outside 2801, hand on the doorknob, not even needing to open it to hear them.

Moans. Grunts. The rhythm of bodies.

"Tell me—" Bianca's voice, breathy and smug. "Tell me who's better. Me or Val?"

"You, baby." Marco's voice was rough, wrecked. "She's like fucking ice. You—you're alive."

"Give it to me harder—"

The rest got lost in sounds I didn't want to hear.

I stood there, every memory of the past five years turning rancid. Every kiss. Every promise. Every time he'd said he loved me.

All of it contaminated.

A shadow materialized beside me.

Dante. He held up a tablet, screen showing the room's interior in perfect HD. Marco's face twisted in pleasure. Bianca underneath him. Every angle captured.

He turned it toward me.

Something cold hit the back of my hand. It took me a second to realize I was crying.

I turned away fast. Didn't want him seeing this. Didn't want anyone seeing me break.

Then I walked. Dante followed without a word.

In the elevator, the doors slid shut, sealing us in silence.

"Send it to me," I said. My voice came out flat, empty. "This is even better than I thought."