Chapter 1

The Moretti estate was glittering with champagne and designer gowns that night.

Liliana paraded around, flashing the Moretti family ring at every woman within earshot. They gasped and cooed—and then shot me looks of pure pity from across the room.

Vincenzo sat at the head of the table, his eyes flicking toward me now and then, checking for a reaction.

When Liliana had soaked up enough attention, she glided over with a flute of champagne. Her gaze landed on my neck—on the pink diamond necklace Vincenzo had dropped twelve million on at auction three years ago, for my birthday.

She let out a little laugh, leaning in close enough that I could smell her perfume.

"Isabella, now that you're not wearing the family ring, don't you think it's a bit... tacky to keep wearing jewelry meant for the lady of the house?"

She reached out, her nails grazing my throat. I flinched back.

And just like that—whoosh—her champagne went all over my silk gown. The crystal flute hit the marble floor with a sharp crack.

Liliana clutched her hand like she'd been shot, her eyes flooding with tears on cue.

"Isabella, I just wanted to see your necklace! If you didn't want to show me, fine—but you didn't have to push me!"

The music died. Every head in the room turned our way.

Vincenzo was already striding over, shoving Liliana behind him like she was made of glass. He frowned at the microscopic scratch on her hand and went rigid.

"Isabella, I thought you were finally getting over that jealous, trashy attitude! What the hell is wrong with you now?"

Every word dripped with blame. With favoritism. With the kind of casual cruelty I'd grown so used to over the years.

I looked at his face—the face I'd loved for seven years—and felt something crack deep in my chest.

I took a breath. Swallowed the burning in my throat.

I didn't explain. Didn't defend myself.

I reached behind my neck, unclasped the necklace, and held it out to Liliana.

"You want it? Take it. And sorry—I guess I lost my footing."

Vincenzo's jaw went slack. He stared at me like I'd grown a second head.

Liliana froze mid-sob.

I pulled a handkerchief from my clutch, dabbed the champagne off my hands, and knelt down. Piece by piece, I gathered every shard of glass from the floor and dropped them into the trash.

When I stood up, I met Vincenzo's eyes.

"I'm going upstairs to change."

I turned and walked toward the staircase, my back straight as a blade. I could feel his gaze burning into me the whole way.

Once I was in my room, I closed the door and leaned against it. Let my eyes fall shut.

Seven years of holding on. Gone.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A coded message from my father:

"Isabella. The Castello convoy enters New York in three days. The Morettis will pay ten times over for what they've done to you."

I felt the sting of tears at the corners of my eyes.

The door flew open.

"What is this supposed to be?"

Vincenzo was already crossing the room, snatching my phone out of my hand. The screen had just gone dark. He tossed it onto the carpet without a second thought.

His hand shot out, gripping my chin, forcing my eyes to his.

"Why didn't you fight back?" His voice was sharp, probing. He was testing me.

I knew the game. He'd orchestrated all of it—Liliana, the ring, the necklace—to see if he could still get a rise out of me.

He and Liliana had been attached at the hip since childhood. At first, it made me uncomfortable, but I brushed it off. Then I found their secret chat channel. When I confronted him, he exploded—said I was just a jealous, possessive shrew who didn't know her place.

He blamed it on my "gutter upbringing." To "fix" me, he promoted Liliana to a permanent fixture in our lives. The more I reacted, the more he paraded her around. Even his friends ganged up on me—"Vincenzo and Liliana grew up together. If they wanted to be together, they would be by now. What makes you, a nobody from the slums, think you're fit to be his Donna?"

I started to believe them. Started to think maybe I was the problem.

Until the third day of our fight. I was burning up with fever, barely able to stand. He looked right through me, packed a bag, and took a "heartbroken" Liliana on a tropical vacation.

Social media was flooded with pictures of her draped all over him on some private island. Her caption read: "Some things never change—still as close as we were as kids. No outsider gets in the way."

That's when I realized: I was the outsider. And it was time to show myself out.

So when he demanded an answer, my voice was flat. Dead.

"Didn't you say I was too much? That I needed to be more understanding? I gave her the ring and the necklace. Isn't that exactly what you wanted?"