Into The Rival's Arms: The Decoy's Escape
I stood behind the velvet curtain, clutching a positive pregnancy test, waiting for the perfect moment to tell Dante our family was growing.
Instead, I heard him laugh.
"She is not the bride," Dante told his Consigliere, swirling his fifty-year-old scotch. "She is the bulletproof vest I wear until it is safe for Sofia to enter the city. When the bullets stop flying, we throw the vest in the trash."
My world shattered.
When Sofia arrived that night, she didn't just take my place; she boiled my beloved cat for dinner. Dante didn't defend me. He told me to clean up the mess or face punishment.
To prove his devotion to her, he had his men drag me to "The Pit"—an underground fight club.
I was thrown into a cage with a starving Doberman.
I looked up at the VIP box, begging the man I loved to save me. Instead, Dante pressed the intercom button, his voice booming over the speakers.
"One million dollars on the dog," he said. "She won't last three minutes."
He covered Sofia's eyes to protect her innocence while the beast tore the flesh from my arm.
That night, Elena Vance died in the dirt.
One year later, the grieving Dante Moretti attended a gala for a mysterious new artist in New York.
He dropped his champagne glass when he saw me on stage, alive, wearing a dress that revealed my ruined, scarred arm.
"I didn't leave you, Dante," I said into the microphone, my voice cold as ice.
"You killed me. And now, I'm here to collect my winnings."
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Chapter 3
For two days, they left me to rot in the dark.
No food. No water. Just the sound of my own shallow breathing and the memories of Dante's betrayal playing on a sickening loop in my mind.
When the door finally opened, the light seared my retinas, blinding me.
Dante stood there, silhouetted against the harsh hallway lights. He looked impeccable in a charcoal suit, every inch the gentleman, as if he hadn't just tortured the woman he slept next to for nearly a decade.
"Stand up," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "We have a charity auction to attend."
I tried to obey, but my legs were trembling from dehydration. I stumbled forward. He didn't reach out to catch me.
"You look pathetic," he noted, scanning my disheveled form with cold indifference. "Fix your face. The press expects the happy couple."
He threw a garment bag at me. "Long sleeves. High neck. To hide the bruises."
"Why?" I rasped, my throat feeling like sandpaper. "Why keep up the act if Sofia is here?"
"Because the transition takes time, Elena. And until the ring is on Sofia's finger, you are still the target."
I was still the bait.
One hour later, I was standing in a gilded ballroom at the Plaza Hotel, smiling until my cheeks ached. Dante's hand rested on the small of my back, his grip firm, possessive. It wasn't comfort. It was a shackle.
Sofia was there, too. She was watching from a private balcony, sipping wine, waiting for her turn to descend.
The auctioneer announced the next item.
"Lot 45. A vintage silver locket, early twentieth century."
My heart stopped dead in my chest.
It was my mother's locket. The one I had pawned three years ago to pay off a gambling debt for Dante's younger brother-a debt Dante never knew about. I had been trying to buy it back for months.
"Dante," I whispered, tugging faintly on his sleeve. "Please. That represents my mother. It is the only thing I have left of her."
He looked at me, swirling his champagne, boredom etched into his features.
"You have plenty of jewelry, Elena. Don't be greedy."
The bidding started.
"Five thousand. Ten thousand."
"Please," I begged, desperation clawing at my throat. "I will never ask for anything again. Just this."
Dante sighed, as if granting a tiresome child a favor. He raised his paddle. "Fifty thousand."
Relief washed over me so violently I almost collapsed. He still cared. Somewhere, deep down, he still cared.
"Going once, going twice..."
"One hundred thousand," a voice rang out from the mezzanine.
It was Sofia.
She was smiling down at us, holding her paddle high, like a queen presiding over an execution.
Dante looked up at her. He didn't counter-bid. He lowered his paddle.
"Sold to the lady in red!"
"No," I gasped. "Dante, please. Outbid her. You have millions."
He looked at me with cold, dead eyes. "She is the future Mrs. Moretti, Elena. I do not bid against family."
I watched, paralyzed, as a staff member brought the locket up to Sofia. She took it, dangling it by its delicate chain over the edge of the balcony.
She caught my eye. She mouthed the word: "Oops."
She opened her fingers.
The locket fell two stories. It hit the marble floor of the ballroom with a sickening crack. The silver buckled. The hinge snapped.
I fell to my knees, scrambling to gather the ruined pieces. The guests gasped, whispering behind their hands.
Dante grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my bruised flesh.
"Stand up," he hissed. "You are embarrassing me."
I looked at the broken metal in my hands. It was sharp. It cut my palm.
Blood welled up, mixing with the silver dust.
I looked up at Dante. I looked at the man I had once worshipped.
And for the first time, I didn't see a Prince.
I saw a corpse.
Because the man I loved was dead. And the thing standing in front of me was just a devil in a designer suit.