Where the Black Rose Withers

My marriage to Dante Volkov was a cold, ten-year family alliance.

I was the Principessa of the Moretti family; he was the Underboss of the Volkov family.

I’ve just been diagnosed with a rare blood disease, and I have less than three months to live.

I wanted the matching black rose tattoo we’d always promised each other—a final keepsake for myself.

But for over three months, every time I booked the city’s top tattoo artist, Dante always found an excuse to cancel.

His trusted subordinate, Isabella Rossi, would conveniently find herself in some kind of trouble.

Harassment from a rival family, a leak of intelligence...

Dante treated her every mishap as a five-alarm fire, and for three months, he never made time for me.

As the torment of my illness intensified, I pleaded with Dante one last time.

But he refused me again, choosing instead to attend Isabella's victory party.

I couldn't stand it anymore. I dragged my failing body to the party.

I needed an answer, a reason—anything.

The moment I arrived, I heard Isabella, arm in arm with Dante, raising a glass.

"This is Dante," she cooed to the rapt audience, "my fiancé."

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1

Dante’s expression was infuriatingly calm—a silent approval.

The instant their glasses were about to clink, I surged forward and hurled a glass of red wine at Isabella’s expensive white gown.

The liquid splashed, staining the silk over her chest a deep crimson.

Then I smashed the glass on the floor, the shards scraping my skin.

Dante’s first reaction was to shield Isabella, but when he saw my face, his eyes instantly darkened.

"Elara, what the hell are you doing here?"

"This is not the place for you. Don't you dare disgrace the Moretti name."

The word "disgrace" was a shard of ice in my heart.

This was not the first time he had accused me of being unreasonable for Isabella's sake.

Whenever I showed the slightest resentment, Dante would shut me down with lectures about "the bigger picture" and "family honor."

We had fought this battle countless times, and Isabella always managed to appear at the perfect moment, playing the innocent victim.

She claimed the rift between us was because I didn't understand his world.

In ten years of marriage, he had never once maintained a proper distance from her.

Since my diagnosis, I had become brittle, physically and emotionally.

So many nights, I’d wake up in excruciating pain, craving his warmth, only to find the sheets beside me cold and empty.

I had asked him to stop seeing Isabella. He told me not to worry, that she was just a useful pawn.

Now, that pawn was on the verge of replacing me. I finally snapped.

"You're a married man, Dante! Our marriage is a treaty between our families. Are you trying to start a war?"

The moment I spoke, we became the center of the storm.

Isabella looked at Dante, her expression a mask of helplessness, her lower lip already bitten raw.

Dante reached out, his thumb gently swiping at her lip. "Don't bite," he murmured. "You're bleeding."

He put his arm around Isabella, ready to lead her away to change, leaving me standing there, utterly alone.

It was always like this. Isabella played the victim, using feigned fragility to monopolize all of Dante's attention.

I called out to him, my voice sharp.

"If you walk away with her today, we get a divorce."

His steps faltered for a heartbeat.

But he still left with her.

The remaining guests pointed and snickered, mocking the sidelined Principessa.

"How pathetic. She still thinks being Mrs. Volkov gives her any power."

"Look at her. What could Dante possibly see in that? She looks old enough to be his Madre."

The ugly words rained down on me.

In my ten years with him, the one thing I dreaded most was any mention of my age.

I fled in disgrace, not noticing until I was gone that the cuff of my dress was stained red—not with wine, but with blood where the glass had sliced my skin.

Right. The doctor had said that in the late stages, my blood wouldn't clot properly.

By the time I got home, the blood had soaked through my sleeve.

I called Dante.

It rang and rang, but the person who answered was Isabella.

"Let me talk to Dante. We need to discuss the divorce."

I heard some rustling, then Dante's furious roar through the phone.

"Is threatening divorce the only move you have left, Elara?"

The line went dead. I stood frozen.

A warm, sticky trickle started from my nose. The world began to spin, the dizziness overwhelming.

I had to brace myself against the wall just to make it to the bathroom.

The medicine was losing its battle against the mutiny in my cells. I didn't have much time.

And even now, Dante and I had not a single memento to share.

I stumbled out of the bathroom. My foot slipped on the slick floor, and my body pitched backward.

I closed my eyes, bracing for impact, but landed in a strong, warm embrace.

"Elara!"

His voice was trembling.

"I told you to be careful! What if I hadn't been here..." A tremor of fear shot through him, and he buried his face in the crook of my neck.

My instinctive flinch made his entire body stiffen.

Then he spoke softly.

"Elara, I'm sorry. I was an ass today."

"Isabella needed that win to solidify her position. It was all for show. Don't be angry with her."

"Take all your anger out on me. Let's just not fight anymore, alright?"

His hand wound around mine, our fingers lacing together.

"And hey, didn't you want that tattoo? Let's go get it done tomorrow, okay?"