Chapter 5

Sometime after midnight, the lock finally clicked.

Elena didn’t move from the couch. The living room had only one wall lamp on—thin light, cold light.

Dante stumbled in. The booze hit first—like he’d been fished out of some loud, dirty place.

Before she could even lean away, he grabbed her waist and yanked her into him.

His breath was hot on her neck. His words were slurred, like he was chewing on an apology and spitting it out.

“Elena… don’t be mad… it’s my fault. Blame me. Hit me, yell at me, whatever…”

“Get off me.” She shoved him twice, voice dead cold.

But he was too drunk to stand. All his weight collapsed onto her, dragging her down with him.

She couldn’t shake him off.

So she stopped trying, let him hang there.

Minutes later, his breathing evened out.

Dante was asleep.

Elena looked down at his face.

He used to do this after business trips too—walk in, fall straight over.

But even with his eyes closed, he’d still fumble for her hand, mumble “missed you,” and pull her tighter.

She shut her eyes. For a second she could almost hear the old version of his heartbeat—young, sincere, hungry for her.

When did it turn into this?

Pain twisted hard in her chest, like someone grabbed her heart and wrung it out.

She didn’t stop it in time. A tear dropped onto his cheek.

It woke him.

He blinked up at her, pupils unfocused, and clumsily wiped at her face.

“Baby… don’t cry… what’s wrong?”

Before she could answer, he leaned in and kissed the corner of her eye.

That drunk softness washed over her like a lie.

“You mad I didn’t do the anniversary right? I… I’ll make it up tomorrow… the best one…”

His voice faded mid-sentence.

Then he slumped against her shoulder and fell asleep again.

Elena didn’t take any of it seriously.

But the next morning—

he remembered.

After he washed up, he came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and whispered in her ear like he had a secret.

“Don’t cook tonight. I booked a private restaurant. We’re redoing the anniversary.”

Elena was folding the blanket. Her fingers paused.

“I have work tonight. I might not make it.”

Dante froze for half a beat—then laughed.

But there was something in it. A tiny, casual kind of contempt he didn’t even notice in himself.

“What work?”

“You’re a full-time wife. What ‘work’ do you have?”

Elena’s hand stayed mid-air. Her fingertips slowly turned white.

She lowered her eyes.

After a few seconds, she just said, softly:

“Okay.”

That night, she showed up anyway.

The restaurant was inside a private club in Manhattan—no sign, just a metal door and security that looked you up and down like you were a threat.

Thick carpet. Glass windows. New York’s night outside like a hard, cold net.

Elena had just sat down when the door opened.

Bianca walked in, lifting her skirt slightly, smiling sweet—like a polished blade.

“Brother, Elena—hi! I’m here!”

Elena looked at Dante. A tiny frown.

Dante explained fast, like he was scared she’d say no.

“Bianca’s felt guilty about the family dinner. She wanted to apologize in person. So I brought her.”

Apologize?

But Bianca didn’t shut up for one second.

She complained the desserts here weren’t as good as “the place you bought last time.”

She dragged out old memories—private jokes, coded little references only they understood.

She pouted until Dante served her food.

She pushed her cup toward him so he’d pour her water.

And Dante indulged it all.

He didn’t even notice Elena sitting between their laughter like a silent stone.

“Brother, didn’t you say there was a surprise?” Bianca blinked. “Stop hiding it. Let me see too!”

Dante checked the time and smiled like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Then—

boom.

Blue fireworks exploded outside the window.

Cold light flooded the room. The whole place looked like a funeral.

One burst. Then another. Then the sky turned into endless blue.

“Oh my god—blue! My favorite!” Bianca lit up like a kid.

And then she picked up Dante’s phone off the table—

pressed her thumb—

unlocked it.

Like it was hers.

She took selfies with the fireworks, posted a story, moving like she’d done it a million times.

Elena stared.

When she and Dante first got together, she’d once suggested sharing passwords, sharing fingerprints.

He’d turned ice cold on the spot.

“Elena. My phone is my privacy. I don’t like people touching it.”

“I’ll give you anything else. But this one thing—respect it.”

That was the first time he’d ever been that harsh with her.

After that, she never crossed that line again.

She’d even been stupidly proud of herself for being “understanding.”

Now his so-called privacy—

was Bianca’s toy.

Elena lost her appetite. She pushed food around, set her chopsticks down, just wanting the night to end.

Then Bianca’s gaze landed on the ring on Elena’s left hand.

Her eyes brightened like she’d spotted prey.

“Elena, your ring is so pretty. Can I see it?”

Dante smiled. “Bianca, don’t mess around—this is your sister’s—”

“Sure.”

Elena cut him off.

No hesitation.

She slid the ring off and handed it over.

Dante froze.

He remembered buying that ring for his proposal.

Elena had treated it like treasure. She didn’t even take it off to shower.

Now she handed it away like it was an old accessory she didn’t care about anymore.

Bianca beamed like she’d won something. She slipped it on, admired it, acted all jealous.

“Ugh… when do I get a ring like this?”

Elena looked at her, eyebrow raised, voice flat—like she was talking about the weather.

“If you like it, keep it.”

Then she added, calmly, every word salted with a blade:

“As long as you don’t mind it being… used.”

The air snapped shut.

Bianca’s smile locked in place. Her fingers trembled. The ring almost fell.

Dante’s face changed too—brows knitting tight, like he was seeing Elena’s edge for the first time.

Elena stood up and grabbed her bag.

“I don’t feel well. I’m going home.”

She didn’t give them time to react. She turned and walked out.

She’d barely reached the club entrance when fast footsteps caught up behind her.

“Elena!”

Dante grabbed her wrist. His voice was low and angry, irritation spilling over.

“What was that?”

“You hand Bianca your ring and say that—what, you doing it on purpose?”

Elena pulled her wrist free, shrugged, eyes empty.

“I meant exactly what I said.”

“She likes it, she can have it.”

Dante stared at her.

That same unease he’d had since the hospital crawled up again.

But Elena wasn’t crying. Not raging. Not breaking.

She looked like she genuinely didn’t care.

And that “don’t care” lit him up more than any fight.

He couldn’t find a clean excuse to explode, so he forced a breath and softened his tone—barely.

“If you’re not feeling well, go rest.”

“Wait here. I’ll drop Bianca off and come back for you.”

“No.” Elena tipped her chin toward the night sky. “You take her. I’ll go alone.”

“Elena!” He finally snapped, voice tight. “Since I woke up you’ve been throwing these weird little comments. What are you even mad about?!”

Elena’s heart sank.

She looked at him—

the eyes that used to look at her like she was everything…

now held only cold impatience.

He was the one cheating.

But he stood there like she was the problem. Like she was “making trouble.”

Elena shook her head, voice quiet.

“I’m not mad.”

“I just want to go home by myself.”

Dante’s brows pinched like he wanted to crush something.

She wouldn’t give him anything to grab onto.

So he threw his hand up, turned back toward the club.

“Fine. Whatever.”

The wind slapped Elena’s face.

She rubbed her hands, already red from the cold—then remembered:

the ring was still with Bianca.

She stopped without thinking and looked up at the second-floor window.

Behind the curtain, two shadows drifted closer.

Bianca hooked both arms around Dante’s neck.

And Dante didn’t push her away.

He bent down and kissed her back—

hard.

Like they were celebrating.

Elena’s stomach flipped.

She doubled over and gagged until tears came out with it.

Then she straightened up, wiped her mouth, and walked home alone.

That ring.

That six-year fake marriage.

And that man she’d loved for more than a decade—

She didn’t want any of it anymore.