Chapter 5 Chapter 5

Seraphina POV:

Amused by the drama she had created, Isabella clapped. "Enough serious talk! Let's go to the game room!"

As she passed me, she leaned in and whispered, her breath hot against my ear. "The connection I have with him is something you'll never understand. You're just a pretty ornament, Sera."

My hands clenched into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. I followed the group into a plush, dimly lit game room and found a quiet corner, wanting nothing more than to disappear.

Then, Dante rose from his seat across the room and settled beside me. He didn't say a word; his presence was a silent, possessive claim, a heavy weight that made my skin crawl.

Isabella saw it. A flash of jealous hatred flickered in her eyes before she quickly masked it, gliding over to sit on Dante's other side, effectively sandwiching me between them. I didn't have to look to know his attention had shifted entirely to her; the subtle turn of his body, the energy in the space between them-it all screamed her name.

I reached for a glass of scotch on the table. Before my fingers could touch it, Dante's hand covered mine.

"You're not drinking that," he said, his voice a low command. "You know you have a weak stomach."

It was a small, almost tender gesture, a flicker of the husband he pretended to be. But the moment was shattered when Isabella drew out a small, ornate bottle.

"Look what I found, Dante," she cooed, holding up a rare fruit juice he used to love as a teenager. "The production line was defunct, but I had them restart it. Just for you."

Dante's eyes, which had been cold and distant, suddenly lit up with a warmth I had never seen. Love and nostalgia warred in his gaze, softening the hard lines of his face in a way I never could.

"Thank you, Bella," he said, his voice quiet.

Guests around us whispered, "She's so devoted," and, "She really knows him." Each word painted me as the interloper, the unwanted third wheel. Dante ignored them, his attention locked on Isabella.

"Let's play a game!" Isabella announced, her eyes glittering with a predatory light. "A game of chance."

The rules were simple. The person who drew the highest card from a deck would choose someone to join them for a private conversation.

The crowd roared, their eyes darting between Dante and Isabella. They all knew this game was for them.

The deck was passed around. Dante drew a card. The King of Spades. The highest card. The room erupted in cheers and whistles.

I knew who he would choose. I prepared to stand, to leave, to escape this final humiliation.

But before I could move, Dante's hand shot out and grabbed mine, his grip painfully tight. "Don't move," he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for me, a command that masqueraded as reassurance.

Then he stood, turned to Isabella, and offered her his arm. The crowd went wild as he led her toward the heavy oak doors of the adjoining library, a clear and public statement.

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