Chapter 4

Elara POV:

I sat in silence on the edge of the hospital bed as a doctor stitched the gash in my leg. Dante stood by the window, his back to me, his voice a low murmur into his phone. His attention was a world away, his concern for me a mask so thin I could see the indifference right through it.

He had fallen for her and was the last to know. The thought was so bitter it almost tasted like a laugh.

"Does it hurt?" he finally asked, pocketing his phone and turning to face me. His brow furrowed with what was meant to be worry. "Are you hungry?"

"Go be with Isabella," I said, my voice devoid of inflection. "She must have been terrified."

"This isn't about her," he insisted, his jaw tightening. "My life with her is a performance, Elara. You know that."

I met his gaze, a strange calm settling over me. The physical pain, sharp and clean, had cauterized the last of my hope. "What if she never has the heir, Dante? What then?"

His silence was the only answer I needed. And in it, I found a profound, liberating release. I would endure this-this life, this marriage-until the anniversary of my father's death. And then I would be gone.

As a nurse administered a rabies shot-the final indignity-I watched him step back into the hallway, his phone already pressed to his ear. Through the glass, I could see the gentle curve of his lips, a softness in his eyes reserved only for her. I turned away, the sight a fresh wound.

I remembered Caterina Moretti's words from years ago, hissed at me in a cold, empty hallway: You will never be enough for him. You don't have the bloodline. You are a weakness he cannot afford.

She was right.

For my birthday, Dante made a grand gesture. An entire waterfront restaurant-a glittering jewel box overlooking the river-booked just for us.

"Aren't you afraid Isabella will be upset?" I asked as he pulled out my chair.

"Do not mention her name tonight," he snapped, his voice a blade.

He produced a small, velvet box. Inside lay a delicate jade bracelet. Recognition was instant and cold. It was the same one from the gossip magazines-the gift Isabella had publicly rejected, calling it "tacky." Bile burned the back of my throat.

I forced a smile as he clasped it around my wrist. He visibly relaxed, pleased with what he mistook for appreciation.

Just then, the sky beyond the panoramic windows ignited. A meteor shower. A cascade of falling stars painted silver streaks across the velvet-black canvas of the night. We had promised to watch one together, a lifetime ago.

For a fleeting second, my heart ached with the ghost of what we'd lost. I was about to thank him-to offer a single sliver of warmth in this cold new reality of ours.

But the heavy glass doors of the restaurant burst open. Isabella stood silhouetted in the doorway, her face a mess of tears, clutching the limp body of a small, white puppy to her chest.

"You poisoned him!" she shrieked, her trembling finger aimed straight at me. "You killed my baby!"