Divorced by Mistake, Claimed by the Billionaire He Hates

I'd already decided I didn't want the man himself. A seat in a car was nothing worth fighting over.

I let out a quiet laugh, said nothing, and slid into the back.

The whole drive, Serena Bellucci was like a bird that never tired of singing. She picked at pastries and little sweets from a gold-foil box, scooping bites onto a spoon she'd already used and lifting them to Dante's lips. She made no effort to hide the intimacy. He made no effort to refuse it. They talked about everything and nothing, her every teasing pout and playful word earning the same reward: a slow, indulgent curve at the corner of his mouth.

From start to finish, I didn't spare either of them so much as a glance.

I cracked the window instead and watched the October light drain out of the city. The wind that slipped through carried the first real chill of autumn, thin and clean, tasting faintly of the river that marked the eastern edge of Moretti territory.

When the car stopped and we had barely walked a few paces from the curb, Serena wrinkled her brow and whimpered that her heels were cutting into her feet.

Dante laughed at her for being delicate, but he didn't hesitate. He steered her into the nearest high-end boutique without a backward glance, the two bodyguards trailing them inside like shadows.

He crouched in front of her himself, pair after pair, checking the flex of each sole with careful fingers, adjusting the strap across her ankle. Every motion deliberate. Gentle.

I stood to the side and watched, and the memory surfaced before I could stop it.

Two weeks ago. A fever so high my thoughts swam and my skin felt like it had been held over an open flame. All I'd asked for was a glass of water. He hadn't even lifted his head. His refusal had been flat, cold, final.

So this was how wide the distance between one person and another could be.

The one held close to the heart was a princess, naturally.

Treatment was never equal. It never had been.

But once, I had been the one cupped in his palms like something precious.

Back then I'd tested him on purpose, told him that if he could bring me the red-bean cakes from the old bakery on the south side, I'd consider being with him. The south side was half a city away from my family's house, and that night a blizzard had buried the streets. Anyone could see it was an impossible demand.

He said nothing. He took his keys and walked out the door.

Five hours.

When he came back, he pulled a paper-wrapped box from inside his coat, still warm against his chest, and held it out to me. His eyes were completely serious.

Afterward, I asked myself a thousand times: if what he felt then was real, how could it change so fast?

Now I understood.

He hadn't changed.

I simply hadn't seen clearly before. Hadn't seen the restless nature beneath the devotion, hadn't seen what kind of man he truly was.

A man like that never stops for anyone.

I laughed softly under my breath, tucked the embossed invitation card tighter in my hand, and walked into the auction hall ahead of them.

The first lot was already under the hammer by the time Dante strolled in with Serena on his arm. Two of his men peeled off to stand along the far wall, jackets buttoned, hands visible but close to the hip.

The auction ran alongside a formal dinner. The tables gleamed with tiered trays of delicate pastries and platters of fat, seasonal crab still glistening from the steam.

The moment Serena sat down, her eyes locked on the crab. She leaned into Dante, tugging at his sleeve, saying she wanted it now.

He gave a helpless little smile, smoothed her skirt where it had bunched against the chair, waved away the server who stepped forward, and picked up the tools himself. He cracked each shell with practiced hands, easing the meat and the golden roe free piece by piece, patient as a man disarming something fragile.

When he was done, he set the plate in front of her.

Serena looked up at him, her eyes bright with worship and need.

I only watched in silence.

After the crab, she pointed idly at the stage, at a suite of emerald jewelry displayed under halogen light.

Dante didn't hesitate. His hand went up, paddle rising in a single clean motion.

"Paddle seventeen bids three hundred million."

The auctioneer's voice echoed across the vaulted ceiling. The room went still. Then came the wave of sharp indrawn breaths, rippling table to table.

No one dared counter. The gavel fell.

Soon the evening broke for intermission. Men and women began circulating with glasses in hand, drifting toward our table the way lesser families always drifted toward power, looking for a word, a nod, an opening.

They watched how Dante attended to Serena, how his hand rested at the small of her back, how he leaned to hear her whisper. They read the signals the way people in this world always did, and drew the obvious conclusion. One after another, they addressed her as "Mrs. Moretti," as "Signora," their voices warm with deference.

Dante's gaze lifted then. Slowly. His thumb dragged once across the face of his signet ring before his eyes found mine, cool and unhurried.

"You have the wrong woman," he said. His voice carried just far enough. "That one is my wife."