Revenge Wedding: I Choose The Reaper

Elena Vitiello POV The penthouse was no longer a home; it was a sterile display case, meticulously arranged and devoid of life. I moved through the rooms with mechanical precision, erasing all evidence of my existence. I didn't pack everything. Just the essentials. My grandmother's rosary. The pearl earrings my mother gave me for my sweet sixteen. The Glock my father insisted I learn to shoot when I turned eighteen. Everything Dante bought me stayed. The diamond tennis bracelet on the vanity? Refuse. The fur coat in the closet? A dead animal's skin. I walked to the kitchen island where the dead roses still sat. They were brown now, brittle as old bones. I picked up the vase and hurled it into the sink. Crash. Glass exploded. Water and rotting stems splattered against the stainless steel. It was a satisfying sound-the clean, final fracture of something that could never be mended. My phone buzzed on the counter. Unknown Number. I swiped the screen. A photo loaded. It was explicit. A tangle of limbs, sweat-slicked skin, and Dante's distinctive tattoo-a cross on his shoulder blade-clearly visible. He was asleep. She was awake, smiling at the camera, her tongue teasing her upper lip. Text: He's sleeping like a baby. Don't worry, I kept him warm for you. See you on the 1st, Princess. I didn't delete it. I saved it. I backed it up to the cloud. I felt a numbness spreading through my chest, a sensation like novocaine seeping into my veins, freezing the tears before they could form. This wasn't heartbreak anymore. This was fuel. The front door beeped. The lock turned. Dante walked in. He looked exhausted, his arm still in the sling from the "accident" at the hospital. He spotted me standing by the island, the suitcase by my feet. His eyes flicked to the bag, a flash of irritation crossing his face before his features reassembled themselves into that boyish, lying expression I used to adore. "Elena," he sighed, dropping his keys. "Thank god you're home. I was worried after you ran off at the hospital." He walked over, his good arm reaching out to pull me close, choosing to ignore the luggage as if his presence alone could compel me to unpack. I stood rigid. He hugged me. He pressed his face into my hair. He smelled of antiseptic and... her. Underneath the sterile hospital scent, that cloying vanilla clung to him like a sickness. "I'm sorry about the confusion," he murmured against my neck. "Sofia is... she's unstable. But I can't just abandon a dying woman. You understand, right? You've always been the compassionate one." Compassionate. That was his polite word for 'pliable'. "She's a friend," he continued, pulling back to look me in the eye, his gaze attempting an earnestness that made my stomach roil. "Just a friend. I promise." I looked at him. Really looked at him. I searched for the man who saved me from the fire. I searched for the man who held my hand at my grandfather's funeral. He wasn't there. The man standing in front of me was a stranger wearing Dante's face. A stranger who thought I was stupid enough to believe a lie that didn't even try to be clever. "You're right," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I understand everything now." He smiled, relieved. "I knew you would. You're my rock, Elena. My queen." He leaned in to kiss me. I didn't move away. I just stared at his lips, thinking about where they had been. Thinking about the photo on my phone. The man I loved died a long time ago. This was just his corpse, still moving.