I Was Never His Real Wife

Elara POV:

Dante saw me. His eyes widened, and he immediately pushed Seraphina away from him, her hands falling from his shoulders. He took a step toward me, his face a mixture of shock and something that looked like guilt.

“Elara? What are you doing here?” His voice was laced with a false concern that made my skin crawl.

I said nothing. I just stood there, letting the cold night air fill my lungs, letting the silence stretch between us. The sight of my stillness, my utter lack of reaction, seemed to unnerve him. He faltered, his step hesitating.

That’s when Seraphina moved. She glided to his side, linking her arm through his possessively.

“Oh, look, it’s your little charity case,” she sneered, her eyes raking over me with contempt. Then her expression shifted, melting into one of fragile innocence. She turned to Dante, her voice trembling. “Dante, she’s been following us, hasn’t she? She’s jealous. Please, make her understand.”

She clung to him, pressing her face into his chest as if seeking protection from me.

“Seraphina,” I said, my voice flat and dead. “Shut up.”

The look of pure contempt I gave her must have hit its mark. She flinched, then her face crumpled, and she burst into tears.

“See?” she sobbed into his shirt. “She’s so cruel to me.”

Dante’s arms went around her, pulling her tight. He glared at me over the top of her head, his expression hardening. “Don’t push your luck, Elara.”

Pain, sharp and familiar, lanced through me. It wasn’t just about this moment. It was about all the moments that came before. I remembered high school, when Seraphina Gallo and her friends had made my life a living hell. They’d cornered me in the locker room, stripped me, and taken pictures, all because Alessandro De Luca, the quiet boy from a powerful family, had shown me a moment of kindness. The memory of their laughter was a scar on my soul.

And I remembered Dante, years later, holding me as I cried about those old wounds. He’d kissed my scars and promised me, his voice a low growl of protective fury, *“I’ll make them all pay for what they did to you, baby. Every last one of them.”*

Now, he was holding my tormentor in his arms, protecting her from *me*. He hadn’t just forgotten his promise. He had fallen in love with the very person who had scarred me.

He misread my silence as guilt. He sighed, a weary, put-upon sound. “Just get in the car, Elara. We’ll talk at home.”

Seraphina lifted her tear-streaked face from his chest. “Yes, get in,” she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. She moved toward me, and as she passed, her fingers dug cruelly into my side, right over my ribs. “We have so much to talk about.”

I flinched away, a sharp gasp of pain escaping my lips.

It was all she needed. Using my movement as a catalyst, Seraphina stumbled backward dramatically, letting out a small, theatrical cry as if I had shoved her with all my might.

Dante’s head snapped up. His eyes, cold and furious, locked onto me. He instantly assumed the worst. He instantly assumed it was my fault.