The Rival Don's Treasured Second Chance

The heavy silence of the room shattered when the door opened again two hours later.

I didn't turn my head. I expected a nurse coming to check my vitals.

"Look at you," a voice purred. "A rat in a trap."

Seraphina.

She sauntered in, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She wasn't limping. Her arm wasn't in a sling. She looked pristine. Polished. Untouched.

She held her phone up, the screen glowing in the dim light.

"Do you want to see the comments?" she asked, smiling. "Everyone thinks Dante is a saint for rushing to my side. And they think you... well, they don't know you exist."

She sat on the edge of my bed. Her weight pulled the sheets tight against my broken legs, sending a fresh spike of agony up my shins.

"Get off," I said through gritted teeth.

"Make me," she challenged.

She scrolled through her phone, her manicured nail tapping against the glass. "Oh, here's a good one. 'Who is the other woman in the car? Probably the nanny.' Nanny. That fits you, doesn't it? Helpful. Invisible. Disposable."

She leaned in close, her perfume cloying and sweet. "You know, Luca died screaming."

The air left the room as if sucked out by a vacuum.

"What?" I whispered, my heart skipping a beat.

"Dante told me," she lied. Or maybe she didn't. "He said the boy was calling for you. But you were too busy playing house with a man who sleeps in my bed."

Rage is a cold thing. It isn't fire; it is liquid nitrogen. It freezes your blood until you are nothing but ice.

I saw the fruit knife on the tray table. A dull, serrated thing meant for cutting apples.

I grabbed it.

"I want a divorce," I said, gripping the plastic handle until my knuckles turned white.

Seraphina laughed. She reached out and shoved my shoulder. Hard. Right on the bruise.

I gasped, dropping the knife as pain blinded me.

She stood up and ground her heel into my wrist.

"You don't get a divorce," she spat. "You get discarded."

The door handle turned.

Seraphina moved faster than a snake.

She grabbed the fruit knife from the floor. Without hesitation, she sliced a shallow line across her own forearm.

Then she threw herself against the wall.

"Help!" she screamed. "Dante! She's crazy!"

Dante rushed in.

He saw Seraphina clutching her arm, fake tears streaming down her face. He saw me, gasping for breath, my wrist throbbing.

He didn't ask what happened.

He went straight to her.

"She attacked me!" Seraphina sobbed, burying her face in his chest. "I came to bring her flowers, and she went crazy!"

Dante looked at me. His eyes were dead—hollow voids devoid of any recognition.

"Can you not give me one moment of peace?" he asked.

"Ask her," I rasped, my voice breaking. "Ask her what she said about Luca."

"Stop using your dead brother as a shield," Dante snapped, his voice cutting deeper than the knife ever could. "You are unstable."

He wiped a speck of blood from Seraphina's arm with his thumb.

"I am taking her home," Dante said coldly. "Do not call me."

He guided Seraphina out of the room. She looked back over his shoulder and winked.

I lay there in the silence.

My phone rang on the bedside table.

It was a blocked number.

I answered it, my hand trembling.

"Mrs. Volkov?" a woman's voice asked. "This is the County Clerk's office. You asked for a copy of your marriage license for the insurance claim?"

"Yes," I said. I needed it to file for divorce.

"Ma'am," the woman hesitated. "We have checked the records going back ten years. There is no marriage license for a Dante Volkov and Elara Moretti."

I froze.

"Check again," I whispered.

"We did. We checked the church records too. There is nothing. No registration. No certificate."

The room spun.

Seven years.

Seven years of cooking his meals. Seven years of warming his bed. Seven years of loyalty.

It was all a lie.

He hadn't just cheated on me. He had never married me.

I wasn't his wife. I was a concubine he had tricked into playing house.

I hung up the phone.

A strange feeling washed over me. It wasn't sadness. It wasn't anger.

It was freedom.

I didn't need a lawyer. I didn't need a signature. I didn't need his permission.

I wasn't Mrs. Volkov.

I was Elara Moretti.

And Elara Moretti was checking out.