Chapter 2

I had only meant to go downstairs for water. I never expected to walk in on their intimacy.

A sliver of light leaked through the crack in the study door, along with the low murmur of voices. I didn't walk away immediately.

I thought I had long grown used to it.

Used to seeing her stand so close to him. Used to seeing him show her just a little more patience than he showed me.

But when that scene struck my eyes with full clarity, I realized I had never gotten used to it at all.

I stepped closer.

Through the gap, I saw Celine standing beside Dante, her fitted suit tracing her perfect figure, her body pressed close against his.

Dante leaned against the desk, a glass of wine in his hand, his expression indifferent. I watched Celine's hand slowly caress Dante's back as the distance between them shrank to nothing.

I cleared my throat softly.

Celine's expression froze. She slowly withdrew her hand but remained pressed against Dante.

And Dante?

Oh, when he saw me, his expression didn't change at all.

"Still up at this hour?" he asked carelessly.

As a woman who loved him—as his fiancée—my reaction should not have been this calm.

I thought I would confront them. Lose control. Storm in and tear away Celine's mask, the way I would have before. But I didn't.

Because I had finally understood my place.

I remembered all those banquets.

Standing beside Dante, people would smile at me and call me "Miss Vail." The moment they turned away, their voices would drop to sneers: "What kind of fiancée is she?"

"Just an orphan."

"She doesn't deserve Dante."

I remembered Nico's awkward position in this family.

Nico was young and frail. If he walked a little slowly, people found him annoying.

Someone once joked at the dinner table, right in front of him: "What's the point of keeping a sick kid like this around?"

They spoke as if discussing a worthless pet.

I looked up, wanting to argue, wanting Dante to hear.

But Dante was never there.

He was in meetings. Doing business. He never knew anyone mocked his fiancée behind his back. He never knew Nico endured cold remarks every single day.

Or maybe, even if he knew, he would consider it trivial.

Because in the Moretti family, trivial matters never warranted the Godfather's attention.

But it wasn't always like this.

Once, Dante had been a caring fiancé.

Back when he wasn't so busy, he would come home late every night and tiptoe to my bedroom. In the darkness, he would kiss me. He would press his forehead to mine and whisper, "Has anyone been giving you trouble? You can tell me everything."

On our anniversary, he would prepare matching rings for us, placing one on my finger with such devotion, saying things that didn't befit a Godfather: "Elara, you can only ever be mine."

That time was so brief it felt like a dream.

After waking, he grew busier and busier, and the distance between us grew wider.

In his place, Celine drew closer and closer.

I used to wait for him at the end of the hallway, so tired my eyes burned, until I finally heard the soft click of the door. But the person who emerged wasn't always him. Sometimes Celine came out first.

Her hair would be slightly disheveled. Her lipstick faded. One button of her collar undone.

"Still awake? The Godfather is so busy. Don't blame him."

Celine kept getting closer to him—close enough that she didn't even flinch when I appeared.

Just like now.

Caught in the act, and somehow I was the only one who felt awkward.

Celine spoke softly, her voice gentle: "Elara, don't misunderstand. I was just here to have the Godfather confirm a document."

I saw everything clearly.

Dante didn't explain. He didn't even seem to think an explanation was necessary. He just looked at me coolly, waiting for me to tactfully withdraw, to keep playing the role of the obedient fiancée.

Suddenly, I understood something: what I had been fighting for here was never love.

I had been fighting for a position. An acknowledged identity. A right to exist without needing a secretary's approval.

But Nico and I had never been granted any of it.

When Nico died, Dante didn't even know.

He was the Godfather, yet he knew nothing of our true situation in this house.

I lifted my head, my gaze sliding past Celine's innocent face before settling on Dante.

He remained calm. Composed. Still very much the Godfather who owed explanations to no one.

"I just came down for water," I heard myself say.

My voice was terrifyingly steady.

Celine raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting me to be this calm.

Dante only nodded, as if the matter were closed: "Get some sleep."

He turned back to continue speaking with Celine, as if I had already ceased to exist.

In that moment, the last thing still teetering inside me finally collapsed completely.

I turned and walked away.

The hallway was long. The lights were bright. Yet I felt like I was walking through a dark tunnel. With every step, I grew a little more clear-headed. A little colder.

Leaving the Moretti family would come at a price.

I knew that.

Those raised here could never leave easily. The rules would chase you. The power would grip you. Even your name could be redefined by them.

But I was still going to leave.

Not out of impulse.

If I stayed, they would grind me down bit by bit, until I became nothing but a decoration—too afraid to speak, too afraid to lift my head, too afraid to breathe.