The Billionaire's Regret, The Heiress's Revenge

Alessandro "Alex" POV:

I watched her walk away.

Soaked in champagne, I stood frozen on the terrace-a king in a ruined tuxedo, watching my queen abdicate her throne.

She placed her empty glass on a passing waiter's tray with a hand that didn't tremble. Her back was straight, her steps measured. She didn't look back.

She walked right through the grand ballroom, past my men, past our world, and out of my life.

She looked eerily calm. Free.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A message from an unknown number. I opened it.

The attachment was a single file: `Separation_Notice_Morton_DeLuca.pdf.`

My heart stopped. The world tilted on its axis.

A second text followed. "Goodbye, Alex."

The number was then blocked.

A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped my lips. This was a ploy. A dramatic, over-the-top gesture to get my attention. She was playing a game.

I drove home, clutching the flight confirmation I'd printed that afternoon. Two first-class tickets to Sicily.

A grand gesture to smooth over her ridiculous tantrum. I'd buy her a villa. I'd buy her a goddamn island if that's what it took.

I shoved open the heavy oak door of our estate. The house was dark. Silent.

"Caterina?" I called out, my voice echoing in the unfamiliar emptiness.

A cold chill, sharp and unwelcome, snaked down my spine.

On the marble entryway table, where I'd left the tickets that morning, sat a single flight confirmation. Mine.

Hers had been torn into a hundred tiny pieces-a pile of white confetti that screamed finality.

This wasn't a game.

I took the stairs two at a time. Her closets were half-empty. The designer gowns I'd bought her were gone. Her side of the massive bathroom counter, usually cluttered with jars and bottles, was wiped clean. Sterile.

My phone started buzzing again, a relentless flood of texts from Enzo. Screenshots from a private chat among my Capos.

Whispers. Rumors. My affair with Isabella. Caterina's public humiliation. My weakness.

Among the messages was an old photo of Isabella and me, taken years ago, long before Caterina. It was a picture I hadn't seen in a decade.

This wasn't a scandal. This was orchestrated.

I drove to Isabella's apartment, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. She answered the door, feigning concern as she reached for my arm.

I recoiled, avoiding her touch as if she were diseased.

For hours, I drove through the sleeping city, a caged animal, the streets a blur of rain-slicked asphalt and neon lights. I called Caterina's phone. Voicemail. I called Giuliana. Voicemail.

I finally returned to the estate just before dawn. The silence was a physical weight, pressing in on me.

It hit me with a sickening lurch that this was never "our" home. It had always been my house. The gilded cage I'd locked her in.

I walked into my study and my eyes landed on the cold, dark fireplace. The place where I had crushed Isabella's locket and burned the past.

And I understood. She saw everything.

For the first time in my life, a true and terrible panic gripped Alessandro De Luca.

Her patience had run out.

And I was utterly, completely alone.