When the Principessa Forgets Your Name

"Don't bother. I don't need a pity marriage to save face for our families."

For six years, I had given him his freedom.

When he wanted to drink, I would sit with him quietly, never rushing him.

If my presence was inconvenient, I would leave, waiting without complaint for his call to pick him up.

When he was drunk, I cared for him with endless patience.

When he wanted to go on "business trips" with his friends—seeking thrills and all-night parties—I planned their itineraries, bought their tickets, and mapped their routes.

I even refused when he offered to let me check his phone.

I loved him, but I was terrified my status as Principessa would suffocate him, so I never tried to chain him down.

I was determined not to repeat my mother's mistakes, whose suffocating expectations drove my father further and further away.

I thought I had navigated our relationship perfectly, that we had found a stable, happy medium.

Before his betrayal, we were still like a couple in the throes of new love.

He desired me, his hunger for me insatiable.

But now I finally saw the truth—he loved me, yes. But he also loved the thrill of any woman who wasn't me, unable to resist temptation.

Was that why he faked his illness? To chase a new kind of thrill? He had even covered the tattoo of my name over his heart with Carina's.

Our eyes met, but there was no love in his.

The questions that burned on my tongue died in my throat, leaving only silence.

As I stared him down, Dante frowned.

He snatched a bouquet from one of his men and shoved it into my arms.

"Here," he muttered, shoving the flowers at me. "Take the damn things and go."

In his eyes, I was still that simple little girl, satisfied by the smallest of gestures.

It never occurred to him that I was the Falcone Principessa, a woman who had seen the world.

My contentment never came from the gifts—it came from loving him.

He couldn't comprehend that when I said I wouldn't marry him, I meant it.

I handed the flowers back to the man who’d offered them.

"These are for Carina, not me. Consider the blood a gift. You owe me nothing."

For a moment, Dante's expression faltered.

A flicker of panic crossed his face.

"Isabella... Carina and I... we're nothing. I still love you."

I smiled faintly.

"Okay. You go take care of my dear cousin. I'm going to handle my discharge papers. Go on. Do what you need to do."

My words stung him.

He stiffened, then turned his head to the side, hiding his discomfort.

"Come on, Dante, Carina's waiting," one of them urged. Another one added, "Yeah, she almost died for you—not like some people who think a little blood buys them a wedding ring." A third one grinned, "She'll get jealous if you don't hurry back. Besides, we've got a new girl lined up for you tonight!"

"Isabella's just putting on an act. She'll come crawling back. Women are all the same. You're too soft on her, boss."

Their words were meant to hurt, but I felt nothing.

Only a cold numbness, as if I were standing on the frozen Hudson River in the dead of winter, forever cut off from all warmth.

After Dante left, I called the one person I trusted, the penthouse housekeeper, and asked her to pack my things.

Custom gowns, photo albums, art pieces—everything I’d brought into this home vanished. With each item, the fragile dream of our future flaked away, revealing the brutal truth underneath.

The housekeeper stared at the empty, sterile apartment and hesitated.

"Principessa, all of this was for the wedding. Are you really throwing it all away?"

"Yes," I replied, my voice calm and distant.

"The groom is dead," I said flatly. "This is a funeral."

At my words, her hands trembled, and she dared not say more, carefully disposing of the wedding photos and the Moretti family engagement ring.

Once the apartment was cleared, I stood at the door with my suitcase.

I looked at the once-familiar door and deleted my fingerprint and iris data from the lock on my phone.

From this moment on, this was no longer my home.