Chapter 3

When I got home, I filled the bathtub with ice-cold water and climbed in fully clothed. The video Dante had sent played on loop in my head—Marco and Bianca, their bodies tangled together, his parents watching like it was a goddamn christening.

I sank under the surface, let the water fill my ears. The cold was clarifying. Sharp. It cut through the nausea and left only rage.

My phone's shrill ring pulled me back up, gasping.

Water streamed down my face as I stared at the screen.

Lorenzo Vitale.

I answered. Said nothing.

"The Red Hook project." His voice carried that same arrogant clip it always did. "I want every file handed over to Bianca. Immediately. She's taking point."

The line went dead before I could respond. Didn't even wait for acknowledgment. Like I was one of his soldiers, not his son's fiancée.

My fingers dug into the porcelain edge of the tub until my knuckles went white.

What was I to them? A tool they'd used up? Someone they could discard the moment they were done?

Bianca—that woman who couldn't read a blueprint if her life depended on it—was taking over my work. The Red Hook waterfront, worth fifty million and change. Eighteen months of my life poured into soil reports and zoning permits and structural engineering. Now it was hers. Just like that.

They really thought this was acceptable. Expected me to hand it over with a smile.

I pulled myself out of the bath, water pooling on the marble. My reflection in the mirror looked half-drowned. Good. Let them think they'd broken me.

Over the next two days, I organized everything. Every permit. Every contract. Every architectural rendering. Put it all in neat folders and had it couriered to the Vitale house.

Then I drafted an email: Effective immediately, I'm resigning from all projects associated with the Vitale family.

Sent it to Marco. To his father. To Francesca.

The response came in eight minutes flat.

Resignation accepted. —F. Vitale

I stared at those two words. Resignation accepted. Five years of work, dismissed in a sentence.

Francesca had been waiting for this. From the first time we met, she'd looked at me like I was something stuck to her Louboutin. Every chance she got, she'd pushed Bianca into projects, transferred me to the worst assignments. She'd been trying to force me out from day one.

And now that I was leaving voluntarily? She was probably popping champagne.

I went to Marco's club that afternoon to collect my things. My key still worked—they hadn't bothered changing the locks yet.

The office was exactly as I'd left it. My desk. My files. Photos on the wall from better days—or what I'd thought were better days.

I ran my fingers over a scratch on the desk's surface. Marco had carved it there years ago when he'd first started working the club. Our initials, intertwined. He'd said it was proof of what we meant to each other.

Proof. Right.

The elevator dinged.

I didn't have to turn around to know who it was. Francesca's perfume announced her—something French and expensive that probably cost more than my rent.

"Finally figured it out," she said, her heels clicking across the hardwood. She leaned against the doorframe, perfectly manicured fingers drumming the wood. "There was never a place for you here. Not in this family. Not beside my son."

"Good to know where I stand," I said, still packing.

Her smile was sharp enough to cut. "You're a smart girl. Smarter than I gave you credit for. You should've realized sooner."

I met her gaze. "I'm also smart enough to know when I've overstayed my welcome."

Something flickered in her eyes—surprise, maybe, that I wasn't crying or begging. "Bianca will replace you. In every capacity."

"She's welcome to try."

Francesca pushed off the doorframe, came closer. "I'm hosting a party tonight. Celebrating. Bianca has news." Her smile widened. "I'm sure you'll be thrilled."

I finished packing in silence. She watched me the entire time, that satisfied smirk never leaving her face.

When I got home, my phone was already buzzing. A video message from Bianca.

I should've deleted it. But I pressed play.

The scene was intimate. Marco's apartment—the one in Williamsburg, the one we'd looked at together. Bianca stood in the center of the living room, Marco's arm wrapped tight around her waist. His parents flanked them, beaming.

"Big announcement!" Marco's voice boomed. His hand moved to Bianca's stomach—barely showing, but there. "First, Bianca's pregnant. Second, I'm giving her the Red Hook project. Her first official contribution to the family business."

Francesca stepped forward, unclasped the diamond necklace from her own throat. Fastened it around Bianca's. "For the future lady of this house."

Someone off-camera laughed. "What about Val? Thought there was a wedding?"

Marco's smile didn't falter. "There is. Val understands. She knows how these things work."

The video cut off.

I sat there in the dark, phone in my hand. They genuinely believed I'd accept this. That I'd play the good little wife while he built a life with someone else.

The burner phone rang.

"Everything's set, Miss Romano." Dante's voice was steady. Professional. "We've got cameras positioned throughout the cathedral. Audio's been tested. When you give the word, the whole city will have front-row seats."

I walked to the window, looked out over Brooklyn. The lights stretched endlessly, each one a life I'd never touch, a world I'd never see.

"I want close-ups," I said. "Every angle. Every expression."

"Consider it done."

"And Dante?" I pressed my palm against the cold glass. "Make sure the audio's perfect. I want everyone to hear exactly what kind of man Marco Vitale really is."

When I hung up, I could see my reflection in the window. The woman staring back wasn't the girl who'd walked away from her family five years ago. She wasn't the fool who'd believed in love over power.

She was Valentina Romano. And she was done playing nice.