The Don's Torn Diary

If it weren't for you, I would never have been the target of Isabella's jealousy, much less been pushed out to die.

And I certainly wouldn't have had to see you with her and your heir twelve years later, repeatedly tortured by your happiness!

On the diary page, shaky, crooked characters continued to appear, as if written with the last of his strength.

"Elara, is there anything else you need me to do?"

asked the boy who was once so deeply in love with me.

But I felt no mercy.

"Leave my life, and never appear again."

Once, when family members mocked me for being "barren," he was my shield.

I once believed that as long as I had him, I could overcome any hardship.

But later, he was also the one who let go of my hand, stood with those who ridiculed me, and pushed me into the abyss.

The one who loved me most also knew best where to stab to cause the most pain.

Countless times I had broken down in despair, questioning why fate was so unfair.

I’d even thought about ending it all.

Now, if there was even the slightest chance, I would not let it all happen again.

The eighteen-year-old Dante clearly couldn't accept my rejection, filling the page with a torrent of words, desperate proof of his love:

"Why, Elara, why won't you believe me? Do you know how much I love you?"

"Every time you had an art exhibition, I’d ditch my bodyguards and slip into the crowd, just to catch a glimpse of you."

"When I heard you were skipping meals for your art, I immediately skipped a family meeting, crossed the city to buy your favorite food, and had it anonymously delivered to your studio door."

"And..."

"That's enough! I know all of that!" I interrupted him, my eyes red, as if I was seeing the girl I used to be, the one who fell for all of this.

"I know that once, when my painting was maliciously destroyed by a rival, you took on a whole block of thugs by yourself. You were beaten until you were covered in bruises, your head bleeding, all to get justice for me."

After a long pause, a line slowly appeared in the diary.

"Elara, how do you know about these things?"

He didn't know yet what his future self would say to me.

I took a deep breath and slowly wrote:

"The future you told me."

The reply came quickly: "If you know that, why do you still want me to leave?"

I gave a bitter smile. "Because the thirty-year-old you deeply regrets doing those things for me."

"You said you mistook youthful possessiveness for love, and that marrying me was the biggest mistake of your life."

"No, Elara. Why won't you believe me? I don't want anyone but you," the crooked words scrambled across the page.

"It's all lies! Not only will you regret marrying me, you'll have a child with that woman!"

Tears fell silently, smudging the ink, and I accidentally tore the paper.

In an instant, the world spun. When I came to, I found myself in a hospital room.

In front of me, the eighteen-year-old Dante lay weakly on a hospital bed, his abdomen wrapped in thick gauze, his face pale.

One hand was pressed against his wound, while the other painstakingly wrote every word, muttering to himself.

"Elara, I'm begging you, give me a chance. You have to believe me, I..."

He looked up, and his gaze met mine.

We stared at each other in silence.

After a long moment, he spoke with difficulty, "Elara, these words..."

The next second, a piercing ringtone shattered the vision, and I was back in my ransacked home.

I answered the phone, and a sharp, commanding voice pierced my ear:

"Elara, come to the restaurant downstairs from the office now. Isabella and I have something to tell you."