Never Forgiven

It was three in the morning. Dominic's phone screen flashed an unread message.

He was showering, the sound of water drowning out everything.

I hesitated for a moment, then picked it up.

The passcode was still my birthday.

But opening the photo album, I found thousands of photos crammed into the favorites folder, every single one of another woman.

Under the Eiffel Tower, Sienna wore a red dress, her smile bright.

A private dinner for two on the top floor of the Eiffel Tower, candlelight illuminating their intertwined fingers.

There was even a photo from a tattoo parlor.

Dominic stood bare-chested in the mirror, the tattoo artist’s needle piercing his chest, directly over the heart.

Where my name used to be: Elena Moretti, in elegant script, surrounded by rose vines.

The year we got married, he’d gotten it done while drunk. He showed it to me afterward, beaming.

"Elena, this is proof I love you."

I cried from the pain, but he held my hand, laughing like a child, "Knowing your name will always be on my heart, it's worth any pain."

But in the current photos, that skin was a tangle of twisted black thorns, obscuring the original design.

Sienna stood behind him, her fingers on his shoulder.

The date was last month.

The week he said he was going to London for business.

Scrolling further, I found an encrypted folder.

Its name was "Security for Her."

After failing three times, I finally remembered Sienna's birthday and opened it.

Inside was a scanned copy.

It was the equity transfer agreement for Moretti Spices Company.

On the last page, in the transferee’s column, was Sienna's name.

I let out a bitter laugh. My father’s life’s work, so easily signed over to that woman.

Before I could feel sad, the water stopped.

The bathroom door opened, and I quickly hid the phone.

Dominic walked out, bare-chested.

"Not asleep yet?" he asked, heading for the wardrobe to get a robe.

I stared at his left chest.

The black thorns had completely swallowed the mark of my name, stark under the light.

He followed my gaze down, his fingers idly tracing the skin.

"Looking at this?" His voice was quiet. "The old tattoo faded, so I got a new one."

"When?" My voice was rough, like sandpaper.

"Can't remember."

It was my birthday.

He said he was too busy with his business trip, and I sat alone until midnight, the cake melting.

So he was at the tattoo parlor, letting another woman watch him carve my name from his heart.

"Tired," he said, getting into bed. His arm instinctively went around my waist, like every night for the past three years. "Sleep, baby."

His familiar warmth pressed against my back.

I stared at the ceiling with open eyes, tears blurring my vision.

Memories flooded back like a tide.

He knew I liked grand gestures, so he always surprised me on our anniversaries.

The first year, it was a private island in the Maldives. The second, he accompanied me to Milan Fashion Week. The third, a private concert at the Vienna Golden Hall.

Last year, on my birthday morning, I woke up to find the entire bedroom filled with roses.

Dominic sat by the bed, a velvet box in his hand.

"You said you wanted a star," he opened the box, revealing a necklace inlaid with pink diamonds. "This is the closest thing to a star."

I cried and threw myself into his arms.

I thought that besides my father, Dominic was the best man to me.

But this year, on my birthday, he broke his promise and went to the tattoo parlor.

He let Sienna watch him erase my name from his heart.

I turned to look at the man sleeping in the bed.

Moonlight illuminated his face; his features remained perfect, like a marble deity.

But on the deity's chest, beat a devil's heart.

I finally understood. Those sweet moments were just dewdrops on a spiderweb, meant to lull the prey into a false sense of security, willingly giving up everything.

And what I gave up was my father's life, my family's fortune, and my own life for three whole years.

And now, this moth had to wake up.