Chapter 3 Chapter 3

Seraphina's POV

A week of silence passed, heavy and airless.

I stayed in Carmela's guest room, curtains drawn, replaying every moment of the past seven years through the new, unforgiving lens of his betrayal. Each memory I re-examined came back tainted—every late-night "business meeting," every unexplained absence, every time he had returned home smelling faintly of a perfume I did not wear.

Then, an order came through his enforcers, a summons as if I were a subordinate, not a fiancée. I was to attend a formal sit-down at a restaurant owned by the Family to finalize the details of our wedding.

I had a duty to my bloodline; my family relied on the syndicate's protection. Even now, even after everything, I could not simply refuse.

I dressed as if for battle, in my most severe black dress and a mask of flawless makeup.

Upon my arrival, I was led to the private dining room in the back.

I pushed the heavy oak doors open, but my first step faltered.

Valentina was already at the table, seated between Julian and his mother. Julian's father and a few syndicate Elders were arranged around them, the air thick with cigar smoke and quiet expectation.

She was leaning in, her movements intimate, as she served a portion of salad onto the older woman's plate.

Valentina looked up and gave me a smile of sickening sweetness.

"I was just accompanying the Don to a business meeting," she announced to the room, her voice a careful performance of modesty. "And his mother was so gracious as to invite me to stay for the family dinner."

Julian's mother patted Valentina's hand, a gesture of familial acceptance.

The older woman then looked at me, her eyes cold. "It is so refreshing," she said, her voice carrying across the table, "to see a young woman who is attentive to a Don's needs, instead of merely painting pictures all day."

I sat down in the empty chair across from them, my spine a rod of iron against the sting of her words. I did not allow my face to change, but deep in my chest, the wound from the week before tore open a little wider. Julian's mother had never approved of my art. I had spent years trying to earn her respect. Valentina had done it in a single dinner.

The tense dinner crawled onward until dessert arrived, a large taro cake placed in the center of the table.

Valentina immediately cut a large slice, placing it directly in front of Julian.

Julian loathed sweets; he detested taro with a violence that was legendary among his men. I had seen him send back an entire dessert course at a Michelin-starred restaurant because the pastry chef had used taro in the mousse.

I watched, my breath held, as Julian picked up his fork. He took a bite of the cake and swallowed, his expression unchanging.

Valentina leaned back in her chair, her voice pitched to carry. "I always keep sweets on hand for Julian in the office. For his blood sugar."

She was declaring to the room that she knew the intimate workings of his body better than I did. That she had access to him in ways I did not.

The Elders, watching from the sides, at first looked confused, knowing his aversion. But as they watched him force down the dessert without protest, their expressions shifted to something like approval for the girl and the unprecedented influence she held over him.

A few minutes later, Valentina stood to propose a toast to the wedding.

She raised her glass of red wine, but as she reached across the table toward Julian's father, her hand "slipped."

The entire glass of dark liquid emptied down the front of my dress. The cold wine splashed up, staining my neck and ruining my makeup. I felt it seep through the silk to the skin beneath, cold and deliberate as a slap.

Valentina gasped, a perfect caricature of horror. She grabbed a rough cloth napkin and leaned over the table.

She began to scrub aggressively at my face and chest, her knuckles scraping my skin, smearing the makeup and the wine into a ruinous mess. It was a calculated, public humiliation, performed for an audience of the most powerful men in the syndicate.

"Enough," I said, my voice low as I pushed her hand away and stood.

Julian silently took off his expensive suit jacket.

I waited, a foolish, desperate part of me still hoping. In seven years, I had never stopped hoping that when it mattered, he would choose me.

Instead, Julian turned to Valentina, gently draping his jacket over her shoulders.

"The air is too chilled in here," he told her, his voice soft. "You must take care not to catch a cold."

I stared at the man I had loved for seven years and saw a stranger in his place. It was not just the betrayal—it was the performance, the way he had scripted this entire evening as a public degradation ceremony and cast me as the unwitting lead.

"Did you summon me here tonight only to flaunt your treason before our families?" I asked, my voice trembling with a cold rage.

Julian slammed his hand on the table, the sound a sharp crack in the silence. "You are causing a scene," he accused me, "and targeting my associate over a simple accident."

I looked at his parents, then at Julian, and finally at Valentina's triumphant face. The fork in my hand was cold. The wine on my dress was drying into a stiff, sticky stain. And the last ember of hope I had carried into this room finally guttered and went dark.

"The betrothal," I announced, my tone turning to ice, "is broken."

I turned and walked out of the dining room without looking back.