My Seven-Year Lie: The Jilted Consigliere

Serafina's POV:

I finished that steak alone, though the expensive cut of meat tasted like ash in my mouth.

I raised my wine glass, gesturing toward the empty chair across from me.

"To new beginnings," I whispered.

As soon as my plate was empty, I picked up my phone.

Instead of calling a friend, I contacted a confidential service specializing in discrete relocations.

"I need a full move-out. Tonight. Right now," I said, keeping my tone brief and to the point.

"Ma'am, it's past midnight. We'll have to charge double our emergency rate for this." The man on the other end hesitated.

"I'll pay triple," I cut him off. "In cash. Be here in thirty minutes."

My eyes swept over the penthouse, the gilded cage I had lived in for nearly seven years. Every piece of furniture, every painting on the wall, reminded me of him.

Reminded me that I was nothing more than a beautiful placeholder.

Stepping into the bedroom, I opened the walk-in closet. My clothes hung neatly beside his tailored suits.

I pulled out three suitcases I always kept ready for an emergency-a habit I had developed since the early days of being with him.

I only packed what truly belonged to me, leaving behind all the gifts and jewelry, except for the cursed ring sitting heavy in my pocket.

It struck me with a painful clarity that he had never given me anything of real value.

There wasn't a single item that wasn't a tool designed to keep me tethered to him.

My phone buzzed. The movers were downstairs.

I opened the door to find four men, their faces completely impassive, their movements crisp and efficient.

The crew leader, a burly man with kind eyes, gave me a quick glance.

"I didn't live alone before," I said, my voice steady, "but I do now."

He nodded, immediately understanding the assignment. "Understood, miss." He turned to his men.

In less than an hour, the once warm and cozy home was reduced to a cold, empty shell. They packed away my entire life with effortless ease.

On the entryway table, only a silver picture frame remained. It held a photo of Dante and me in Tuscany, both of us smiling brightly. It was the only picture of us together in the entire apartment.

I walked over, picked it up, and laid it face down on the polished wood.

Then I walked out without looking back.

The car drove silently through the sleeping city. It wasn't heading to a hotel, but to a four-bedroom apartment in an unassuming building on the other side of town-a place I had bought with my own savings a month ago.

A contingency plan.

Deep down, maybe I had always known this day would come. I was glad I had never told Dante about it. This last sanctuary wouldn't be tainted by his memory.

Standing in the empty living room, the faint smell of fresh paint still lingering in the air, a profound sense of relief washed over me.

It was a feeling I hadn't realized I was so desperately craving.

It was the feeling of being truly alone, truly free.

My phone buzzed, the harsh sound shattering the quiet.

A text from Dante.

"Come back when you're done throwing your tantrum. Don't make me come get you."

The words weren't a plea; they were an order. It was the pure arrogance of a deposed king refusing to accept he had lost his crown.

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen.

He still thought he could control me.

He was about to find out just how dead wrong he was.