The Unwanted Bride Becomes The City's Queen

Seraphina Vitiello POV:

The diamond on Isabella's finger was the size of a quail egg.

It caught the fractured light of the crystal chandeliers, sending aggressive little rainbows dancing across the ballroom ceiling.

The crowd erupted.

Men in five-thousand-dollar suits clapped Dante on the back, while women in silk gowns dabbed at dry eyes, feigning emotion.

"To the union of Chicago's finest!" someone toasted, their voice booming over the applause.

I stood by a marble pillar, my hands clasped tightly behind my back to hide the trembling.

I wasn't shaking from sadness.

I was shaking from the sheer, exhausting effort of existing in this room without screaming.

Isabella was glowing. She held her hand up, admiring the ring, preening like a peacock displaying its feathers.

Then, her eyes found me in the shadows.

Her smile sharpened into something predatory.

"Seraphina!" she called out, her voice cutting through the din. The room quieted instantly. "Don't be shy. Come wish us well."

Dante turned. His face was impassive, a beautiful mask of stone.

I forced my legs to move. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, but instead of awe, their eyes held a mixture of pity and amusement.

The spare. The failure.

"Happy birthday, Isabella," I said, willing my voice to remain steady. "Congratulations on the engagement."

"Where is my gift?" she asked, extending her manicured hand. "You didn't forget, did you?"

I reached into the small, unassuming clutch I was allowed to carry.

I pulled out a velvet box. Inside sat a pair of pearl earrings. They were simple, elegant, and had cost me three months of saving from the pittance of an allowance my father granted me.

Isabella snatched the box. She didn't even glance at the earrings.

Her eyes dropped immediately to my wrist.

My heart stopped.

I had forgotten.

In my desperate haste to dress, to hide the bandages on my arm, I had left the bracelet on.

It was nothing to look at. Just a string of rough, unpolished lava stones. Cheap. Ugly.

But in the safe house, in the dark, Dante used to run his thumb over those stones. He used to count them when the pain of his injuries threatened to pull him under.

*One, two, three... you're here, Seven. You're here.*

Dante's eyes followed Isabella's gaze.

He froze.

The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees, sucking the warmth right out of my lungs.

He reached out and seized my wrist. His grip was like a vice, crushing the healing bones underneath.

"Where did you get this?" he demanded. His voice was low, vibrating with dangerous intent.

I flinched, trying to pull back. "It's mine."

"Liar!" Isabella shrieked.

She dropped the earrings to the floor. She clutched her chest, her face twisting into a practiced mask of distress.

"That's mine!" she cried, looking around for sympathy. "Dante, that's the bracelet I wore when I took care of you! I told you I lost it! She stole it!"

The room gasped.

The thief. The jealous sister.

Dante looked from Isabella to me.

He didn't see the truth. He didn't see that the bracelet was worn down by my fingers, that it fit my wrist perfectly, that it smelled of my skin.

He saw a thief.

"You stole from her?" Dante snarled, his eyes dark with disgust. "Is nothing sacred to you? You try to steal her life, and now her memories?"

"I didn't," I whispered, the words choking me. "I am Seven. This is mine."

My father stepped forward.

He didn't ask for an explanation. He didn't look at the evidence.

He swung his hand.

The slap connected with the side of my head with the force of a sledgehammer.

I stumbled back, the world tilting on its axis.

My heels caught on the hem of my dress.

I fell backward, crashing directly into the champagne tower.

Glass shattered.

The sound was deafening as hundreds of crystal flutes came crashing down around me.

Shards sliced into my arms, my back.

Sticky, golden champagne soaked my hair, stinging the fresh cuts like acid.

I lay there in the ruin, gasping for air, tasting blood and expensive wine.

My mother walked over. She held a glass of red wine in her hand.

She poured it over my face.

"Disgrace," she spat, the red liquid dripping down my cheeks like false tears. "You are a stain on this family."

I wiped the wine from my eyes, blinking through the stinging burn.

Through the red blur, I saw Dante.

He wasn't moving toward me. He wasn't helping me up.

He was holding Isabella, checking her hands with frantic tenderness to make sure none of the flying glass had touched her.