You Can't Buy My Heart, Mr. Vitiello

Elena Rossi POV

The morning light hitting the floor-to-ceiling windows was unforgiving. It didn't just brighten the room; it interrogated it, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the dead air and the hollow emptiness in Dante’s eyes.

He sat at the kitchen island, reading a dossier with the stillness of a statue.

He bore no trace of the man who had unraveled me only hours prior. He didn't look like a lover. He looked like a CEO. A predator sheathed in Italian wool.

"There's a bag on the counter," he said, his voice flat, never lifting his gaze from the papers. "The new season Hermès. Take it."

It was his standard penance. A transaction. Obedience bought with calfskin.

"I don't need a bag, Dante." I poured coffee, hating the way my hand trembled against the china. "I need to know if I'm attending the Starry Night Gala tonight."

He finally looked at me. His eyes were dark abysses, voids that swallowed the morning sun. "Why wouldn't you?"

"Because Sofia Moretti is in town."

The temperature in the kitchen seemed to plummet.

He closed the dossier. The sound was soft, yet final. "Sofia is business. You are... my companion. Do not confuse your roles."

He stood, closing the distance between us with a predator's grace. He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture mimicked tenderness, but his touch was cold, possessive.

"Wear the black dress. The one with the open back. Be ready by seven."

He left before I could summon the breath to argue.

My phone buzzed against the marble counter. It was my mother.

"Elena! Oh, thank God," her voice chirped, painfully oblivious to the gilded cage I was living in. "Your father's surgery is scheduled for next week. The doctor says the specialist is the best in the country. It’s all thanks to Dante."

Bile rose in my throat, acrid and hot. "That's... good, Mom."

"He's such a good man, Elena. I know he's busy with his... import business... but when are you going to bring him home? We want to thank him properly."

"He's busy, Mom," I choked out, my voice tight as a wire. "I have to go. I have class."

I hung up, the guilt physically gnawing at my insides. They thought Dante was a benevolent logistics magnate who adored their daughter. They didn't know their medical bills were paid with blood money. They didn't know their daughter was nothing more than a glorified concubine.

I spent the day at the university lab, seeking refuge in the sterility of science. Under the microscope, cells behaved predictably. They didn't lie. They didn't hurt you.

At 7:00 PM, I was dressed. The black gown clung to my curves like a second skin, the back plunging dangerously low, exposing my spine to the world. I wore the diamond collar he liked. I looked the part: the Capo's prize.

The driver deposited me at the venue. The Starry Night Gala was the charity event of the season, a convenient masquerade for the underworld to wash its dirty money in public view.

I waited by the entrance, shivering in the biting night air. Dante was supposed to meet me here.

A sleek Rolls Royce pulled up to the curb. The paparazzi flashbulbs erupted like a lightning storm.

The door opened. Dante stepped out. He looked devastatingly handsome, a prince of darkness amidst the strobe lights.

But he didn't reach back for me.

He reached back into the car and took a hand. A hand gloved in pristine white silk.

Sofia Moretti emerged. She wore a gown of crushed red velvet, a blood-red jewel demanding the world's attention. She looked regal. She looked like she belonged on his arm.

Dante placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. They walked up the red carpet together, a united front. The King and his Queen.

I stood in the shadows of a pillar, invisible.

"Who's the mistress?" I heard a photographer whisper to his colleague, gesturing toward the car.

"I thought Vitiello kept a pet," the other muttered.

"Pets stay in the kennel," the colleague sneered. "That woman in red? That's a wife."

I felt the blood drain from my face, leaving me cold. Dante walked right past my hiding spot. He didn't turn his head. He didn't acknowledge my existence.

He had told me to be ready. He hadn't told me I would be a spectator in my own humiliation.

I forced myself to step out, to walk the carpet alone. I held my head high, masking the shattering of my pride with a mask of ice. I entered the ballroom and found a dark corner, away from the prying eyes.

From across the room, Dante caught my eye.

He raised his champagne glass slightly. A silent toast. *Stay there. Be good.*

I looked away.

For the first time, I didn't crave the scraps of his approval.

I wanted to watch his kingdom burn.