I Was Never His Real Wife

Elara POV:

Dante rushed to Seraphina’s side, his hands hovering over her as if checking for injuries. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.

She nodded weakly, leaning against him for support.

He turned his glare on me. “That’s enough, Elara. You can’t let the past go, can you?” He gestured vaguely at Seraphina. “So she watched while her friends did some stupid shit in high school. It was years ago. Get over it.”

He trivialized it. He dismissed years of trauma, the scars both seen and unseen, as “stupid shit.”

Seraphina, feigning a desire for peace, gave me a triumphant, mocking smile over Dante’s shoulder. The message was clear: *I won. You lost.*

I ignored them both. My eyes fell to the ground where Luca’s box had fallen, his few precious belongings scattered across the filthy pavement. I knelt silently, my fingers trembling as I reached for his favorite model airplane, a wooden Spitfire he’d spent months building.

As my fingers brushed against the delicate wing, a red-soled heel slammed down on it.

*CRACK.*

The balsa wood splintered, the model shattering into a dozen pieces under Seraphina’s deliberate weight.

Something inside me snapped. A raw, primal scream of rage tore from my throat. I lunged at her, my only thought to rip that smug smile off her face.

I never reached her.

A hard kick connected with my stomach, sending me flying backward. The air rushed out of my lungs, and I hit the ground hard, landing on a sharp piece of plastic from the broken model. It pierced the skin of my back, a searing, white-hot pain.

Dante stood over me, his face a mask of cold fury. “You keep going after her,” he snarled, completely ignoring the blood that was already starting to soak through my shirt.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and furious. “That was Luca’s,” I sobbed, the words choked with grief. “That was all I had left of him.”

Dante scoffed, his expression dismissive. “It’s a toy. I’ll buy him a more expensive one.”

The world stopped. The sounds of the city, the cold wind, the pain in my back—it all faded away.

He had forgotten.

In the seven days since my brother died, the man who claimed Luca was “family to him, too” had forgotten he was dead. He had forgotten everything.

The fight drained out of me, replaced by an emptiness so vast it felt like a black hole had opened in my chest. My heart, my love, my hope—it was all gone, consumed.

I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the pain, and turned to leave. I just wanted to disappear.

Dante blocked my path, his car idling like a growling beast. He leaned out the window, his anger suddenly replaced by a semblance of concern. “You haven’t eaten, have you? You’re too thin.”

He was inviting me to lunch. After everything.

Numbly, I got in. What else was there to do?

I slid into the back seat, a prisoner in my own life. Up front, Dante and Seraphina chatted intimately, their voices a low murmur. He peeled an orange for her, feeding her the segments one by one.

I closed my eyes, remembering every cut, every humiliation Seraphina had inflicted since she’d reappeared in our lives. Each one was a fresh wound, and Dante had held the knife every single time.

A violent jolt threw me forward. The sound of screeching tires and shattering glass filled the air.

A massive truck had smashed into the side of the car.