Repainting My Life After Divorce

After discovering that his former lover, Camille Marchand, had returned from Paris after completing her fashion studies, my husband, Dante Valente, began to drift away.

It started slowly at first, like casual mentions of Camille's career, the admiration in his voice when he spoke of her success. Soon, it became undeniable.

Dante was captivated, following her like a loyal duckling trailing its mother.

When Camille opened her boutique in Providence, Dante not only attended but became her greatest patron, investing time, money, and admiration in a way I had never seen before.

I had been Dante's wife for four years, yet somehow, I could not compete with his new-old flame.

Dante's eyes sparkled in Camille's presence, and her every achievement seemed to eclipse my existence.

The day of my graduation, a day I had dreamed of sharing with my husband, came and went. Dante was not by my side, as he had promised. Instead, he flew to New York with Camille for Fashion Week.

I was left standing alone, feeling the ache of his absence and the humiliation of explaining it to others.

When I confronted him, Dante dismissed my feelings as petty.

"Don't be spoiled," he'd say. "You have everything here, soldiers at the gates, a full staff, anything you could want. Camille, though, she's alone in Providence, far from her people. She needs support."

But what about me? What about the milestones, the small and large victories I wanted to share with my husband?

The final straw came when Dante accompanied Camille to Paris Fashion Week, meeting her parents and integrating himself even deeper into her world.

I had lost him, and with every fiber of my being, I knew it was time to let go. The decision, when it came, was bittersweet but clear.

I signed the divorce papers and left the Valente compound. My next destination was Italy, where I could finally pursue my master's degree, free from Dante's shadow and his divided heart.

As I prepared to leave, I sent Dante one last message.

[Seraphina: Since there's nothing left for me here, I will leave you to the life you have always wanted.]

His reply was cold, dismissive, and painfully revealing.

[Dante: How can you live without me? Without my money?]

At that moment, tears welled up, as I realized I had been little more than a possession to him, an accessory in his world rather than a partner in his life.

I blocked his number, severing the last tie between us, determined to start fresh and find my own path.

Days later, I heard from mutual friends that Dante was frantically searching for me, sending messages I had never received. [Seraphina, I'm sorry. Please come back to me.]

Tomorrow would mark my graduation after four years of relentless study at the Rhode Island School of Design, where I had majored in Painting.

It was a day I had dreamed of sharing with my husband, Dante.

But when I brought it up over dinner, his response was colder than the winter wind outside.

"I have something to do tomorrow," he said curtly. "I'll send flowers."

That was it.

He rose from the table without another word, already absorbed in whatever was on his phone. I sat there staring at the empty seat he'd left behind, feeling as though I had been quietly dismissed from his life.

In recent months, just when I had begun to believe Dante was finally softening toward me, he grew distant again.

The reason wasn't difficult to find.

Camille Marchand had returned from Paris.

His former lover was back, determined to open her own boutique in Providence, and ever since her arrival, Dante had rarely left her side.

He funded her ambitions, supported her plans, and devoted his time to helping her succeed, treating her as though she were the true lady of the Valente family.

For an entire month, I watched him cater to her every need while I was left with nothing but brief conversations, distracted replies, and the occasional perfunctory gesture.

A month earlier, I had held my first major art exhibition.

It was a milestone I had spent years working toward.

Dante never showed up.

He couldn't spare a single day to see the work I had poured my heart into. Instead, he sent flowers accompanied by a generic note that felt more like an obligation than a celebration.

Yet when Camille needed someone to pick her up from the airport, he rushed there without hesitation.

When she prepared to launch her boutique, he somehow found endless time to oversee every detail personally.

For her, he was always available.

For me, there was never enough time.

Sometimes it felt as though I were nothing more than a ghost haunting the halls of the Valente compound, invisible to the man I had vowed to spend my life with.

The frustration that had been building inside me finally overflowed.

I followed him upstairs, my voice cutting through the silence.

"Why are you being so cruel, Dante?"

He paused but didn't turn around.

"When you skipped my exhibition last month, I stayed quiet. When you chose to pick Camille up from the airport instead of spending time with me, I stayed quiet. When you poured your time, energy, and Family money into her boutique, I stayed quiet."

I swallowed hard.

"But now it's my graduation day. One day, Dante. That's all I'm asking for. And you still can't spare a few hours for me. Is this because of Camille again?"

My voice trembled despite my efforts to control it.

Maybe the staff could hear us through the old walls.

Maybe they couldn't.

At that moment, I didn't care.

I just wanted him to understand how much he was hurting me.

Finally, he turned around.

He slipped his phone into his pocket and looked at me with a mixture of annoyance and contempt.

Without warning, he stepped forward and pinned me against the wall.

The force of it sent a chill through my body.

"What are you complaining about now?" he sneered. "Is your allowance not enough? Do you want another piece of jewelry? Some luxury gift? Just say it, Seraphina. Stop making a scene."

His words struck harder than any slap.

In a single sentence, he reduced all my pain, all my longing, all the love I had carried for him into something shallow and material.

Tears burned in my eyes.

"I don't want your money, Dante," I whispered. "I want you. I want my husband to care about me. To spend time with me. That's all I've ever wanted."

For a brief moment, I allowed myself to be vulnerable.

It was a mistake.

The corners of his lips curled upward in a mocking smile.

He reached out and gripped my chin roughly, forcing me to look at him.

"Your tears don't work on me, Seraphina."

His voice was cold enough to freeze the air between us.

"And I will never give you what you want. So stop expecting me to attend your graduation."

He released me with a sharp jerk.

Pain flared across my jaw.

Then he turned away and slammed his bedroom door so hard that the entire hallway seemed to tremble.

The sound echoed long after he was gone.

Our marriage had always been hollow, but in that moment, the truth crushed whatever hope remained inside me.

From the very beginning, ours had never been a marriage built on love.

It was an alliance.

A blood-bound arrangement orchestrated by his mother, Vittoria.

We lived under the same roof, yet occupied separate bedrooms, separate lives.

To Dante, I was little more than a servant.

Even though the compound employed countless staff members, he insisted that I be the one to lay out his clothes, prepare his bath, and make his bed every day.

It was a mockery of marriage stripped of affection, intimacy, and kindness.

The man I had once dreamed of building a future with had become an unbearable stranger.

And although my heart still ached when I thought of all the patience I had given him, all the care I had poured into him, and every hope I had stubbornly held onto, I finally understood something.

Starting today, I had to let all of it go.

Growing up as an orphan, I spent countless afternoons painting in the yard of the Catholic orphanage on Federal Hill, staring beyond the iron gates and dreaming of a life bigger than the one I had been given.

I dreamed that someone might notice me one day. Someone who would see potential where others saw an orphan, offer me an opportunity, and help me pursue the only thing I had ever truly lovedart.

More than anything, I wanted to become a renowned painter and one day open a studio of my own, a place where my work could live and breathe freely.

Then, shortly after I graduated from high school, that opportunity arrived.

A woman came to the orphanage with an offer that felt almost too extraordinary to be real. She would pay for my education at the Rhode Island School of Design, one of the most prestigious art schools in the country.

I still remembered the day she arrived.

A black sedan with tinted windows pulled up outside the orphanage. A soldier stepped out first and opened the door for her. The moment she entered, the nuns fell noticeably quieter.

Everyone on Federal Hill knew the Valente name.

There was only one condition attached to her generosity.

I had to marry her son.

Dante Valente.

He was five years older than me and had been slowly unraveling since the woman he loved left him for Paris.

"A blood-bound union," Vittoria called it.

"An alliance marriage."

The kind of arrangement that kept powerful families connected in the world she belonged to.

At eighteen years old, I hesitated.

"But does Dante know about this?" I asked carefully.

"Yes," Vittoria replied. "And he agreed."

As she spoke, her fingers drifted to the pearl necklace around her throat, adjusting it absently, as though reminding herself of the many roles she carried. Mother. Matriarch. The woman who quietly held the Valente family together behind the scenes.

In the end, I accepted.

Partly because I was grateful.

Partly because I felt indebted to her kindness.

Vittoria had shown me more warmth than I had ever known, and I wanted to repay that kindness in whatever way I could.

Dante and I entered our marriage as little more than strangers, but I held onto the hope that time might change things.

Perhaps one day we would learn to care for each other.

Perhaps one day we could become a real family.

Throughout college, I worked hard to carry my own weight. I earned scholarships, sold paintings online, and did everything possible to avoid becoming a financial burden.

The Valente name opened doors I never asked to walk through, but I kept my head down and worked as though none of those advantages existed.

None of it mattered to Dante.

To him, I was little more than an inconvenience.

No matter how hard I tried, he remained cold and distant, looking at me as though I were an unwelcome guest who had overstayed her welcome.

In a family where status determined everything, I had none.

No protection.

No influence.

No place at anyone's table.

I was a wife on paper and a ghost inside the compound.

Even on our wedding day, he refused to kiss me.

The ceremony ended, and he turned away without a second glance.

The few times Dante entered my room were always after he had been drinking. Those encounters never felt like affection. They felt like obligation.

Or worse.

A reminder that I was merely tolerated, never cherished.

One night, he stumbled into my room reeking of alcohol, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

The moment I saw him, I already knew what was coming.

"Seraphina," he slurred, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "Why don't you ever come to my room?"

"You've never asked me to," I replied quietly. "And it's not like you wanted this marriage any more than I did."

He laughed bitterly and crossed the room unsteadily before grabbing my arm.

"You're only here because of my mother. Without her, you're nothing."

The words stung.

Not because they were new.

Because I had heard them countless times before.

"Yes, Dante," I whispered as his grip tightened.

"I know."

The years passed like that.

And I endured all of it because of Vittoria.

She was the only person who had ever shown me genuine kindness.

When an opportunity to study abroad came along, I even turned it down because I feared leaving would disappoint her.

Yet no matter how much I sacrificed, no matter how hard I tried, I could never replace the woman who already occupied Dante's heart.

Camille.

His first love.

His only love.

I was merely a substitute.

A shadow standing where someone else was supposed to be.

That was why, after our argument that night, something inside me finally settled.

Not anger.

Not heartbreak.

Resolve.

My professor's words echoed through my mind.

"The scholarship is yours if you want it."

"Italy is waiting for you, Seraphina."

It wasn't simply an opportunity.

It was a lifeline.

A door opening after years of feeling trapped behind walls I had never chosen.

And for the first time, I decided to walk through it.

To leave behind everything that had been holding me back.

---

The following morning, I joined Dante for breakfast in the dining room of the Valente estate.

He barely acknowledged my presence.

His attention remained fixed entirely on his phone.

Two soldiers stood against the far wall, expressionless and silent, hearing everything while pretending to hear nothing.

Apparently, he had already forgotten everything that happened the night before.

I cleared my throat.

"Dante."

He didn't look up.

"What would you think if I went to Italy for a master's degree?"

Without lifting his eyes from the screen, he waved one hand dismissively.

"It's your decision."

His tone was absentminded.

Careless.

As though I had asked what to order for lunch.

The signet ring on his finger caught the morning sunlight.

He wasn't even fidgeting with it.

I wasn't important enough to make him uncomfortable.

I took a slow breath.

"And since I'll be there for a while..."

I carefully steadied my voice.

"What do you think about getting a divorce?"

For a brief moment, I expected him to finally look up.

To ask why.

To show some reaction.

Anything.

Instead, he simply continued scrolling.

"No problem."

That was all.

No surprise.

No questions.

No hesitation.

Just indifference.

A strange mixture of relief and sadness washed through me.

There it was.

All the proof I needed.

In a world where dissolving a marriage required the Don's direct authorization, Dante agreed to divorce me with the same level of concern he might show when changing a dinner reservation.

He hadn't even noticed that I had stopped preparing his clothes.

Stopped drawing his baths.

Stopped making his bed.

Little by little, I had handed those responsibilities back to the household staff.

And he never noticed.

Not once.

"Okay."

I pushed back my chair and stood.

My breakfast remained untouched.

I had lost my appetite completely.

As I rose, my gaze briefly landed on his phone screen.

A message thread was open.

The contact name was impossible to miss.

My Camille.

The words struck harder than they should have.

Because they confirmed what I had always known.

His heart belonged to her.

His devotion belonged to her.

His world belonged to her.

And it never belonged to me.

Just then, his phone rang.

Camille.

He answered immediately.

After listening for a moment, he said without hesitation,

"I'll be there in a minute."

A bitter smile tugged at my lips.

So this is what certainty feels like.

Not relief.

Not peace.

Just clarity.

I pressed my thumb against the callus on my middle finger, worn smooth from years of holding a paintbrush.

The familiar touch grounded me.

Not because the pain had faded.

But because the decision had already been made.

And this time, I wasn't looking back.

After breakfast, I headed to campus for my graduation ceremony, my emotions caught somewhere between pride and an ache I couldn't quite ignore.

That day marked the end of my journey at the Rhode Island School of Design, four years of hard work, sleepless nights, and unwavering dedication finally coming to a close. Soon, I would leave for Italy and begin chasing the future I had dreamed about for so long.

Yet as I stood among the graduates with my diploma in hand, loneliness found me anyway.

Everywhere I looked, families were celebrating. Parents wrapped their children in proud embraces, couples posed for photographs, and laughter echoed across the campus lawn. It was a day meant to be shared with the people who loved you most.

And I was completely alone.

No black sedan waiting at the curb. No Valente soldiers standing nearby. No sign that anyone from the family had even remembered I existed.

It was as if the name I carried meant nothing to the man who had given it to me.

I forced myself to smile.

"Well, this is nothing new," I murmured under my breath. "No reason to be upset just because Dante didn't come."

I took a slow breath and lifted my chin.

After all, being alone had become a habit.

Fortunately, my professor sought me out afterward and congratulated me personally. He seemed genuinely pleased that I had accepted his patronage offer and insisted on taking me to lunch to celebrate.

"Italy is going to change your life, Seraphina," he said with an enthusiastic smile. "I can't wait to see the artist you'll become."

I smiled back.

"Thank you, Professor."

His confidence in me filled me with hope, and for a little while, I almost forgot everything else.

But on the drive home, uncertainty crept back in.

As the car passed the courthouse, my eyes lingered on the building through the window.

The thought of divorce weighed heavily on my mind.

For a moment, I almost asked the driver to pull over.

The man driving was one of the Family's soldiers, silent and disciplined like all Valente associates. He probably wouldn't ask questions. He might not even understand what I intended to do.

Still, someone would eventually find out.

Someone always did.

Then I thought of Vittoria.

How would she feel if I went through with it?

The thought stopped me.

With a quiet sigh, I decided to wait a little longer.

Almost as if fate had been listening, my phone rang.

Vittoria's name appeared on the screen.

"Seraphina, dear!" she greeted warmly. "Congratulations on your graduation. How about we celebrate with a little shopping?"

A genuine smile tugged at my lips.

"That sounds lovely."

I asked the driver to change directions and return to the compound to pick her up.

When I arrived, she was already waiting near the front steps, impeccably dressed as always. One hand rested lightly against the pearls at her throat, adjusting them in a gesture so familiar it instantly softened something inside me.

Whatever resentment I felt toward Dante, I could never direct toward her.

Despite everything, Vittoria had always treated me with kindness.

When I was with her, I almost felt as though I still had a family.

We spent hours moving from boutique to boutique, chatting comfortably and browsing through luxury storefronts. Vittoria carried herself the same way she carried herself everywherewith quiet authority.

Store associates hurried to greet her.

Managers emerged from their offices the moment they recognized her.

Espresso appeared before she even requested it.

This was what it meant to be the wife of Providence's most powerful Don.

And for a few brief hours, I found myself sheltered beneath that influence.

While Vittoria examined a designer handbag, I casually checked my phone.

A notification immediately caught my attention.

Camille had posted something new.

She was attending New York Fashion Week.

And standing beside her, smiling for the cameras, was Dante.

Their arms were linked.

They looked exactly like a couple.

The caption beneath the photo read:

*So happy to be here again this year, especially with someone you love.*

My chest tightened painfully.

So that was why he couldn't attend my graduation.

Vittoria must have noticed something in my expression because she turned toward me immediately.

"Seraphina, dear, is everything alright?"

Concern filled her eyes.

I forced a smile and locked my phone screen.

"I'm fine. Did you find something you like, Mom?"

"I did." She smiled warmly before handing me a shopping bag. "And I bought one for you too. I hope you like it."

Emotion tightened my throat.

"Of course I do. Thank you... for everything."

When I returned home that evening, the compound felt emptier than ever.

Dante didn't come back that night.

Or the night after.

The guards changed shifts. The housekeeper continued preparing meals. The Valente household operated with the same efficiency it always had.

Life continued.

As if its heir had never left.

As if his absence meant nothing.

I tried to ignore the unease growing inside me, but it refused to go away.

A few days later, Camille posted again.

This time she was in Paris for Fashion Week.

And once again, Dante was right beside her.

Every photograph showed the same thing.

The same admiration.

The same pride.

The same affection he had never shown me.

The more I looked, the more my stomach twisted.

Against my better judgment, I clicked through every story she uploaded.

One showed Dante attending her birthday celebration at her parents' home.

Another showed him kissing her cheek while keeping an arm wrapped securely around her waist.

Something inside me finally snapped.

"Why don't you just move in together already?" I muttered bitterly.

The anger surprised even me.

But it refused to fade.

The thought kept gnawing at me until I couldn't ignore it anymore.

Suddenly, I grabbed my bag and stood.

My heart pounded.

My decision was finally clear.

I told the driver to take me to the courthouse.

This time, I wouldn't hesitate.

Inside the courthouse, I signed the divorce papers with a steady hand.

My signature looked firm.

Certain.

Final.

As I put down the pen, my thumb pressed against the familiar callus on my middle finger, worn smooth from years of holding a paintbrush.

The small ache grounded me.

No more waiting.

No more wondering.

No more hoping for something that would never come.

I was taking my life back.

---

A few days later, Dante finally returned from Paris.

That evening, I prepared dinner for us.

It was the first meal we had shared in weeks.

I sat calmly at the long dining table, the divorce papers folded neatly beside my plate.

The room had always been too large for two people.

The chandelier cast golden light across the polished mahogany table, illuminating the same room that hosted Family dinners and important meetings. Usually it was filled with captains, advisers, and their wives.

Tonight, it was only us.

And somehow, that silence felt heavier than any crowded gathering.

As soon as Dante sat down, I slid the documents across the table.

He glanced at them briefly.

Then pushed them right back.

"Leave them in my study," he said casually. "I'll look at them later."

I stared at him.

He wasn't even curious.

"You're not going to read them?" I asked quietly.

After everything, that was all I deserved?

Dante sighed and reached for his phone.

"Seraphina, can we not do this right now? I just got back. I'm tired."

"Dante," I pressed, struggling to keep my voice steady, "do you even notice anything anymore? I stopped waiting on you. I stopped acting like the perfect wife. I stopped doing everything you expected me to do."

My throat tightened.

"You barely noticed."

He waved a hand dismissively.

"Just because you're throwing a tantrum doesn't mean I have to drop everything. If you're finished, I'd like to eat my dinner in peace."

For a long moment, I simply stared at him.

And finally, I understood.

He sat there exactly as he sat everywhere else in this citylike everything belonged to him and nothing deserved his attention unless he chose to give it.

The light caught the signet ring on his hand.

He wasn't nervous.

Wasn't conflicted.

Wasn't restraining himself.

Because I hadn't mattered enough to provoke any reaction at all.

Slowly, I stood.

The divorce papers felt heavier in my hands than they should have.

Yet strangely, I felt lighter.

"Alright, Dante."

My voice came out almost as a whisper.

"I'll leave them in your study."

I paused briefly.

"But this time... I'm done waiting for you."

Then I turned and walked away.

Inside his study, I placed the papers neatly on his desk.

As I did, my attention drifted to a stack of receipts and financial statements scattered nearby.

The room smelled faintly of leather and cold espresso.

This was where Dante handled the Family's real business.

Ledgers.

Invoices.

Financial records.

Money flowing through countless accounts before eventually landing somewhere clean.

Almost absentmindedly, I glanced through them.

Then my heart sank.

Since Camille's return, Dante's monthly spending had increased dramaticallynearly twenty percent higher than usual.

Each line item felt like another small wound.

Then I found it.

A property purchase.

A new safe house.

I didn't need anyone to tell me who it was for.

On impulse, I grabbed a sticky note from the desk and scribbled a short message across it.

**Make sure you sign it!**

Then I placed it directly on top of the divorce papers.

I started packing early, sorting through years of belongings and memories with a level of clarity that felt almost clinical.

Although Dante and I slept in separate rooms, we shared the same walk-in closet. For years, it had been part of my daily routine to prepare everything for him. I knew exactly how he liked his shirts pressed, where he preferred his cufflinks placed, and which tray he expected to find his signet ring on when he left in the morning.

It had become second nature.

A quiet ritual I performed to maintain the fragile peace of our distant marriage.

Now it was time to let it all go.

As I folded my clothes into suitcases, my attention drifted to a collection of gifts I had given Dante over the years. Birthday presents. Anniversary gifts. Holiday surprises.

Every single one remained untouched.

Most were still wrapped exactly as I had given them.

They sat forgotten in the back of the closet like meaningless objects he had never cared enough to open.

A dull ache spread through my chest.

I remembered how carefully I had chosen each gift, how much thought and effort I had poured into them, foolishly hoping they might show him how deeply I wanted to be a good wife.

In the end, none of it had mattered.

Without another thought, I gathered them together and placed them into a donation box.

Perhaps someone else would appreciate them.

Someone who actually wanted them.

At the same time, I left behind everything Dante had ever bought for me.

The jewelry.

The designer handbags.

The expensive clothes.

Every gift he had used to smooth over another disappointment or silence another argument remained exactly where it was.

I packed only the things I had purchased myself with money earned from selling my artwork.

Those were the only things that truly belonged to me.

Once the donation boxes were packed, I loaded them into my car and headed toward the orphanage where I had grown up.

The old Catholic building still stood on the same street in Federal Hill.

Its stone steps had been worn smooth by decades of children running up and down them.

Every Family in Providence respected the orphanage as neutral ground under the old code.

Even the Valentes left it untouched.

On the way there, I stopped at a supermarket and bought snacks for the children.

I would be leaving soon.

But they would always remain close to my heart.

The moment I stepped inside, I was greeted by the woman who had raised me with endless patience and kindness.

The woman I simply called Sister.

She welcomed me with open arms.

We settled into a quiet corner of the common room, talking comfortably while children's laughter drifted through the hallway in the distance.

For a while, we chatted about ordinary things.

Then I finally gathered the courage to tell her the truth.

"I'm going to Italy for further studies."

The words left my mouth accompanied by a small smile.

Her entire face brightened.

"Oh, Seraphina!" she exclaimed warmly, squeezing my hands. "I always knew you were meant for great things. You deserve every happiness waiting for you."

Emotion tightened my throat.

Her encouragement felt like a soothing balm over wounds I hadn't realized were still bleeding.

Then I forced myself to continue.

"I'm also... divorcing Dante."

For a brief moment, concern crossed her face.

She folded her hands together in her lap and became very still.

Not judgmental.

Not surprised.

Just waiting.

Listening.

She knew how close I had always been to Dante's mother, and perhaps she had once hoped that marriage would finally give me the family I had spent my entire life searching for.

But as I explained everything, her expression gradually softened.

Finally, she nodded.

"Sometimes letting go is the bravest thing a person can do."

Her voice was gentle as she patted my hand.

"You have to follow your own path, Seraphina."

I felt tears threaten to rise.

Instead, I smiled and hugged her tightly.

"Thank you."

By the time I left the orphanage, evening had begun settling over the city.

I drove back toward the Valente estate slowly, enjoying the quiet roads.

Normally, I would have been watching the clock anxiously.

Dinner was important to Dante.

For years, I had rushed home whenever possible because I knew how irritated he became if I was late.

Yet as I drove that evening, I felt none of that urgency.

No pressure.

No anxiety.

Only distance.

Thinking back, his obsession with shared meals had always confused me.

Breakfast and dinner.

Every day.

No excuses.

Why had it mattered so much to him?

There had never been a real marriage between us.

We slept separately.

Lived separately.

Loved separately.

Sometimes I wondered whether those meals had merely been part of a performance.

A way to convince the household staff that the arrangement worked.

That the blood-bound marriage his mother had orchestrated resembled something real.

Even then, I still assumed it was simply one of Dante's strange habits.

That assumption vanished the moment I walked into the manor.

An unexpected scene greeted me in the living room.

Dante's younger sister, Ginevra, and Camille sat surrounded by luxury shopping bags, designer boxes, and discarded tissue paper scattered across the furniture like confetti after a celebration.

Ginevra glanced up immediately.

"Oh, you're finally home, Seraphina."

Her tone was as arrogant as ever.

"We're starving. The chef couldn't come today, so go make dinner."

The words landed exactly where they always did.

A reminder of the role I had played in this family.

Useful.

Convenient.

Replaceable.

I pressed my thumb against the familiar callus on my middle finger and glanced toward Camille.

She deliberately avoided my eyes, choosing instead to fuss over a brand-new handbag.

At that moment, Dante emerged from the hallway.

"Forget cooking tonight," he said casually. "Let's just eat out."

Then his attention shifted instantly to Camille.

His voice softened.

"What do you feel like eating?"

Camille's eyes lit up.

"I want steak," she said eagerly, wrapping both hands around his arm. "Can we go to our favorite place? The one we used to go to in college?"

Without hesitation, Dante nodded and reached for his car keys.

Watching how naturally they fit together, how comfortable they seemed in each other's presence, I quietly tried to slip away.

Unfortunately, Dante noticed.

"Come with us."

I paused.

"No thanks. I'm not hungry."

His expression darkened immediately.

"That wasn't a question, Seraphina."

I released a slow breath.

The familiar weight of his authority settled over the room.

"Fine."

The ride there was exactly as uncomfortable as I expected.

Dante and Camille occupied the front seats, laughing together and reminiscing about old memories.

Meanwhile, Ginevra sat beside me in the back, carefully positioning herself as far away from me as possible.

She treated me like a stranger.

Or perhaps something worse.

The two women chatted effortlessly while I remained silent, staring out the window as Providence blurred past.

Neon signs.

Streetlights.

Historic streets giving way to the waterfront district that Family money had transformed over the years.

When we finally arrived at the restaurant, a bitter realization settled over me.

I recognized the place immediately.

It was the steakhouse Dante had brought me to countless times throughout our marriage.

The restaurant I had foolishly assumed belonged to us.

The hostess recognized him the moment he entered and guided us toward his usual table without needing to ask.

And suddenly, everything became painfully clear.

This had never been our place.

It had always been theirs.

Just like so many things I once believed belonged to us.

In the end, almost every cherished memory I thought we had built together had started with Camille long before I ever arrived.

As soon as we entered the restaurant, one of the waiters recognized us and greeted us with a polished smile.

"Mr. and Mrs. Valente," he said warmly. "It's been a while since we've seen the two of you together."

The moment the words left his mouth, I noticed Camille's expression stiffen.

Without hesitation, she slipped her arm through Dante's, clinging to him possessively, as though staking her claim in front of everyone present.

The gesture clearly confused the waiter, but Dante either didn't notice or chose not to.

"Table for four," he said casually.

"Of course. Right this way."

The waiter led us through the restaurant toward one of the familiar tables tucked away in the back, beyond the private dining rooms where business was conducted behind closed doors and never discussed in daylight.

What none of them knew was that the restaurant itself carried a different meaning for me.

It had always been one of Dante's favorite places because the steaks were prepared tableside, allowing guests to cook them themselves if they wished.

For years, he had insisted that I be the one to do it.

What he never mentioned was that it had once been something he and Camille did together.

As the tabletop grill heated up, Ginevra grabbed the tongs with a smug smile.

"I'm actually pretty good at this," she announced. "I just don't enjoy cooking unless I have to. Watch and learn."

She flipped the steak with practiced confidence, earning an impressive hiss as the meat met the hot surface.

For a while, everything seemed perfectly normal.

Then the oil began dripping from the steak.

A few seconds later, flames suddenly surged upward from the grill.

Camille gasped.

Startled, she jerked backward and accidentally knocked the grill over.

Hot embers scattered in every direction.

Both Camille and I were sitting closest to the grill.

Ginevra managed to dodge in time, having noticed the danger moments earlier.

I barely had time to react.

Dante moved first.

Without hesitation, he rushed forward and scooped Camille into his arms.

"Call an ambulance!"

Panic filled his voice.

"She's been burned. Hurry!"

The urgency in his tone made it sound as though her injuries were life-threatening.

Meanwhile, a sharp sting spread across my arm where several embers had struck me.

But Dante never looked my way.

Not once.

His entire world narrowed to Camille.

As though I wasn't even there.

Silently, I lowered my gaze and touched the small burns on my arm.

The pain was immediate.

Sharp.

Real.

One of the waiters, rushing to assist, noticed my discomfort and paused.

"Mrs. Valente, are you alright? Do you need medical attention?"

I opened my mouth to answer.

Before I could speak, Dante's voice cut through the room again.

Cradling Camille protectively against his chest, he gently smoothed a hand through her hair.

"Make sure she's treated immediately."

His tone was urgent.

Demanding.

The waiter looked from him to me, visibly unsure who needed help first.

Seeing his hesitation, I forced a small smile.

"I'm fine."

I lowered my hand.

"Please take care of her first."

Only then did Dante glance at me.

Just briefly.

As though he had suddenly remembered I existed.

"If you're hurt, deal with it yourself."

His voice was cold.

Detached.

"Just don't make a scene."

Something tightened painfully in my chest.

Still, I kept my expression calm.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Dante."

Satisfied, he looked away again and returned all his attention to Camille.

A moment later, he guided her outside to wait for the ambulance.

Two soldiers stationed near the entrance immediately moved to flank them without being told.

Not one of them looked back.

Ginevra remained standing nearby, visibly annoyed.

She tapped her nails rapidly against her wine glass.

"Great."

She rolled her eyes.

"Now the whole evening is ruined."

Not once did she ask if I was hurt.

Not once did she even glance at my injuries.

The moment they disappeared from sight, I finally allowed myself to wince.

The burns throbbed painfully beneath my sleeve.

The waiter returned carrying a cold compress.

Sympathy softened his expression.

"Here, ma'am. This should help."

I accepted it gratefully.

"Thank you."

The cool cloth eased some of the pain.

And somehow, the simple kindness of a stranger felt more comforting than anything I had received from the people I once considered family.

As I pressed the compress against my arm, a thought quietly surfaced.

This will be the last time.

The last time I allow myself to be ignored.

After leaving the restaurant, I took a taxi directly to the hospital.

The burns weren't severe, but they hurt enough to require treatment.

In the emergency room, the doctor carefully examined my arm before beginning treatment.

"You're lucky," he said. "The burns aren't deep. With proper care, you should heal within a few days."

"Thank you, Doctor."

As I waited to settle the bill, two nurses nearby began chatting quietly.

Ordinarily, I wouldn't have paid attention.

Then I heard Dante's name.

"Did you hear?" one nurse whispered. "Mr. Valente reserved an entire floor for that woman."

"And he brought in several specialists for her consultation."

A bitter smile tugged at my lips.

How ironic.

He had never gone to those lengths for me.

Not once.

Not even when I needed him most.

Pushing the thought away, I handed my card to the receptionist.

A few moments later, she frowned and returned it.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but this card has been blocked."

I stared down at it.

The Valente family card.

The one Dante had given me years ago.

Understanding dawned instantly.

He had seen the divorce papers.

And this was his response.

A punishment.

A warning.

A reminder of who controlled the money.

"Oh."

I forced a smile.

"My mistake."

Reaching into my wallet, I handed over my personal card insteadthe account funded entirely by the paintings I had sold over the years.

As the payment processed, an uncomfortable realization settled over me.

Habit was a frightening thing.

For years, I had relied on what the Family provided.

And now, all it took was one signature on the wrong document to reveal exactly how fragile that security truly was.

One decision.

One disagreement.

And suddenly, you discovered what your value really was.

Nothing.

After my arm was bandaged, I returned to the estate.

Dante and Camille would be spending the night at the hospital, which suited me perfectly.

The last thing I wanted was to see either of them.

Several staff members noticed the bandage wrapped around my arm and immediately looked concerned.

"It's just a minor burn," I reassured them with a smile.

"Please don't worry. And I'm sorry for disturbing everyone so late."

The following morning, I was awakened by the soft chime of a notification.

Still half asleep, I reached for my phone.

Then I froze.

An acceptance notice.

The Arts Academy in Italy had officially confirmed my admission.

My heart nearly stopped.

The school requested one final artwork as part of the enrollment process.

Excitement surged through me so suddenly that it drowned out everything else.

Without wasting a second, I gathered my art supplies and headed downstairs.

The driver immediately offered to take me.

For the first time, I declined.

"I'll drive myself."

He looked uncertain but stepped aside.

Like everyone employed by the Valente family, he wasn't accustomed to people refusing the routines that had always existed.

But I no longer wanted those routines.

I wanted freedom.

I drove directly to the RISD Museum, hoping inspiration would come from the art that had first made me fall in love with painting.

And it did.

Hours slipped by unnoticed.

I sketched.

Painted.

Created.

Completely losing myself in the process.

For the first time in years, I felt light.

As though the weight of my marriage had finally loosened its grip around my throat.

With every brushstroke, another piece of myself returned.

The version of me that existed before Dante.

Before disappointment.

Before years of waiting for love that never came.

I was so absorbed in my work that I didn't notice night had fallen until my phone suddenly rang.

The sound shattered the peaceful silence of the studio.

I glanced at the screen.

Dante.

A flicker of annoyance crossed my face as I answered.

"What is it?"

"Where are you?"

His voice was sharp.

Demanding.

I could practically picture him standing in the dining room, irritated to discover I wasn't sitting there waiting for him like I always had.

"Where I am is none of your business, Mr. Valente."

My tone was ice cold.

The silence on the other end lasted only a second.

Then I felt his anger through the phone.

"How long are you going to keep up this tantrum, Seraphina?"

He scoffed.

"Is this because I cut off the card?"

Another bitter laugh.

"We both know you can't survive without me."

I lowered my gaze to the familiar callus on my middle finger.

The ridge felt solid beneath my thumb.

Steady.

Reliable.

Unlike him.

Taking a slow breath, I answered calmly.

"Actually, I can."

Then I hung up.

Without hesitation.

Without regret.

Without looking back.

A moment later, a text message appeared.

**Dante:** Come back right now, or I'll drag you home.

I stared at the screen.

Then typed a single word.

**Seraphina:** Never.

With one final swipe, I blocked his number.

And for the first time in a very long time, I felt free.