Chapter 3

Seraphina POV:

That night, the sounds from Dante's bedroom bled through the walls. Muffled laughter, the low murmur of voices, the squeak of bedsprings. I lay in my own bed, stiff as a corpse, staring at the ceiling. The cheap metal collar burned my skin, a constant, agonizing reminder of my place.

I finally gave up on sleep and went to the balcony, lighting another cigarette. The smoke was still harsh, but the burn in my lungs was a welcome distraction from the fire around my neck. I smoked the entire pack, one after another, until the sun began to stain the horizon a sickly gray.

The next morning, I found Isabella in the dining room, sipping tea as if she'd lived here her whole life.

She looked up at me, her eyes lingering on my butchered hair and the raw, red welt on my neck. A small, cruel smile played on her lips.

"Dante's birthday is in a few weeks," she said, her voice like honey laced with poison. "It's also going to be our engagement party. I was thinking of a theme. What do you think he'd like? You've known him for so long."

The question was a calculated strike. She was asking me to plan the celebration of my own demise.

A memory surfaced, unbidden. A rainy night, years ago. Dante had just returned from a "business meeting," his knuckles bruised and a fresh cut over his eye. He'd found me in the kitchen, and for a rare moment, the mask had slipped. He'd looked tired, almost haunted.

He had leaned against the counter, his voice barely a whisper. "When I'm done with all this, Fina, when all my enemies are gone, I'm going to take you to my private island. No one will ever find us there."

The memory was so vivid it hurt. I pushed it down, deep into the black hole where I kept all the other beautiful lies.

"I wouldn't know," I said, my voice hollow. "I don't concern myself with Don Moretti's affairs."

Just then, Dante walked in. He looked from me to Isabella, his gaze impassive.

"My affairs," he said, his voice clipping the air, "are none of your concern." He was speaking to me, reinforcing the boundary he had drawn.

I turned to leave, my cheeks burning with shame.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"To the embassy," I said, my voice tight. "I need to handle my visa for school." The lie came easily. The forged university acceptance letter from Toronto was tucked safely in my purse.

Dante's entire demeanor shifted. The indifference vanished, replaced by a flash of violent possession. He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at him. His fingers dug into my jaw, hard.

"What school?" he hissed. "And with who? Don't think I don't know what you are, Seraphina. You dare to start running around with some filthy mutt from outside these walls, and I will break his legs. Then I'll break yours."

His words were laced with a familiar, terrifying jealousy. The same jealousy that had once made me feel safe, cherished. Now it just felt like a chain.

Isabella stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Dante, darling, let her go. You're scaring her. She's just a child."

He released me, his eyes still boring into mine. I stumbled back, the urge to touch my bruised jaw overwhelming. I resisted. I would not show weakness. Not in front of her.

Later that day, standing outside the Canadian embassy, my phone buzzed. It was a notification from Dante's private social media account, one I was privileged to follow. He had posted a photo.

It was a professional shot of him and Isabella. He was in a perfectly tailored suit, she in a stunning evening gown, standing before the massive, carved Moretti family crest in the grand hall. They looked like a king and queen.

The caption was two words.

*My Queen.*

My vision swam. It felt like the world tilted on its axis, throwing me off balance. That word. Queen. He had killed the princess and crowned a new queen, all in one fell swoop.

My fingers moved on their own, tapping out a comment from a new, anonymous account I'd created just for this purpose. I wrote it in Latin, a language he'd forced me to learn, a language of empires and endings.

*Sic transit gloria mundi.*

*Thus passes the glory of the world.*

Then, I blocked him. I blocked his account, deleted his number, and wiped every digital trace of him from my life. It was over.