A Donation of Seven Years

"Isabella, please don't be angry. It's my fault you two are fighting," Alessia murmured, tears already shimmering at the corners of her eyes. "I'm just a guest here. I should go back to my room."

Dante's expression melted. He instantly pulled her into his arms, stroking her hair.

"Don't cry, Alessia. This is your home. You can do whatever you want. Don't pay any mind to anyone else."

I clenched my fists until my knuckles were bone-white, the acid churning in my stomach. Without another word, I retreated to my bedroom.

About half an hour later, the door opened.

Dante's arms wrapped around me from behind, his lips planting a soft kiss on my neck. His voice dropped to its usual gentle tone.

"Isabella, what's gotten into you today? Why are you picking fights with Alessia? You were never like this. Her health is fragile. Didn't we agree we would always put her first?"

"I'm not feeling well," I said. "Am I not allowed to be short-tempered?"

My cold tone made his body stiffen for a moment.

Then he was gone, returning a minute later with a steaming mug.

"Here, drink this. I'll go make dinner."

The click of the closing door sealed me off from the world he shared with her.

Through the wood, I could hear Alessia's coquettish complaints and Dante's patient, reassuring murmurs.

It wasn't until I felt a damp spot spreading on my shirt that I realized I was crying.

At the dinner table, Dante and Alessia sat on one side, a united front. I sat opposite them, an island of one.

I watched him skillfully shell shrimp for her, placing them on her plate, before casually spooning a few unpeeled scallops into my bowl.

"Isabella, Dante worked so hard on the seafood tonight," Alessia chirped. "These scallops are my absolute favorite. You should have some more."

At her praise, Dante gifted her a doting smile.

I didn't touch my chopsticks. Seeing this, Alessia scooped half the scallops from her own bowl into mine.

"Go on, eat," she prodded. "Or are you disgusted with me?"

Dante’s eyes fixed on me, his gaze a silent, unyielding command.

"Isabella, be good," he said softly. "It's a kind gesture from Alessia. You'll hurt her feelings if you don't eat."

I looked up and caught the flash of triumph in Alessia's eyes. I opened my mouth to refuse.

But she was faster. As if on cue, she took her spoon, scooped up a mouthful of scallops, and pushed them into my mouth.

"Hurry, try them, Isabella! Aren't they delicious? This is my apology for earlier. If you don't eat them, does that mean you can't forgive me?"

I struggled to swallow. Before dinner was even over, a familiar itch started spreading across my neck.

I was wearing a low-cut sweater, and an angry red rash was already blooming across my skin, impossible to hide.

Dante's gaze flickered to my neck, his mouth opening as if to speak.

Crash.

Alessia's wine glass shattered on the floor. A single drop of blood beaded on her fingertip where a shard had grazed it.

Anxiety contorting his features, Dante rushed to get the first-aid kit. He fussed over her, cleaning the tiny cut with painstaking care before lifting her into his arms and carrying her back to her room. He never once looked at me.

Staring at the closed door, I numbly returned to my room. I injected myself with the allergy shot, went through the motions of my nightly routine, and climbed into bed as the last seven years of our marriage replayed in my mind, each memory a fresh betrayal.

At one in the morning, the bedroom door opened.

His duties to Alessia apparently fulfilled, Dante finally came to bed and pulled me into his arms.

I could smell the cloying gardenia perfume on him—Alessia's favorite. Silently, I slipped the wedding ring from my finger, the one I had worn for seven years.