Chapter 3

That night, my father’s mansion became a preparation station for my humiliation.

Victor insisted I attend the Moretti charity gala “as a show of unity.” Adrian insisted because… Adrian always insisted.

“Wear something appropriate,” he told me in the hallway, voice calm. “No provocations.”

I stared at him. “You’re bringing Chloe as your bride. Why do you care what I wear?”

His eyes narrowed. “Because you are a Hart. And I don’t tolerate chaos near my name.”

There it was.

Not love.

Not tenderness.

Image. Control. Order.

In my last life, I mistook that for stability.

This time, I recognized it as a coffin.

I wore a black dress anyway—sleek, sharp, backless. Not vulgar. Just unapologetic.

Chloe wore white lace like an innocent lie.

At the gala, chandeliers dripped light onto the rich like they deserved it. Senators laughed with criminals. Priests sipped champagne beside men with blood under their fingernails.

The Morettis didn’t hide.

They didn’t have to.

Adrian walked in like the room was built for him.

Women watched him like he was sin they wanted to taste. Men watched him like he was winter they couldn’t outrun.

I watched him like I was watching the door of my past closing.

When the waltz began, Adrian stepped forward.

My heart did something stupid—an old reflex, a memory of devotion that didn’t belong to me anymore.

He extended his hand.

Not to me.

To Chloe.

Gasps fluttered around us like startled birds.

“Isn’t Lena the one engaged to him?”

“Maybe the Don finally came to his senses.”

“The younger sister looks like a saint.”

Adrian’s hand closed around Chloe’s fingers.

His gaze swept over my dress, disapproval tightening his mouth.

“You don’t even know this dance,” he said to me, voice flat. “Watch. Learn.”

Chloe smiled as if she’d won something sacred.

I smiled back, because she had no idea what a poisoned crown felt like.

They stepped onto the floor—perfect posture, perfect rhythm. Chloe looked up at Adrian like worship.

Adrian looked past her like she was convenient.

I lasted thirty seconds before I turned away.

I slipped through the crowd, past the laughing elites, past the guards, and out onto the terrace.

Cold air hit my skin like a slap.

The city below glowed in neon arteries, alive and indifferent.

Snow began to fall.

I let it land in my hair.

Freedom tasted like winter.

I danced a little, alone, moving to music only I could hear.

Because no one was watching.

No one was judging.

No one was training me.

Then heels clicked behind me.

I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Chloe.

She stopped beside me, face flushed from the dance, eyes shining with cruel satisfaction.

“Running away already, Lena?” she murmured. “You always do that—act brave, then disappear.”

I stared at the city. “What do you want?”

She leaned closer, voice soft. “I want you to understand your place.”

I laughed under my breath. “My place is anywhere you aren’t.”

Chloe’s smile snapped.

“Do you think Adrian will ever choose you?” she hissed. “He wants a woman who obeys. A woman who makes him look untouchable.”

“Then you’re perfect,” I said.

Her eyes sharpened. “He doesn’t know what you are.”

“What am I?”

Chloe’s lips curved. “A mistake Victor regrets.”

That word hit like a slap.

I turned fully toward her.

“You don’t get to speak about my mother,” I said, voice dangerously quiet.

Chloe’s gaze glittered. “Your mother died begging. Mine is still here. Still winning.”

Something in me went cold.

Then Chloe stepped closer—too close—and whispered, “When Adrian lifts my veil on the wedding day, you’ll be nothing. Just the sister who couldn’t be trained.”

I smiled.

Because she didn’t know I’d already packed.

Because she didn’t know I’d already bought my future with my father’s greed.

Because she didn’t know my leaving wasn’t a reaction.

It was a plan.

I turned away from her and walked back inside.

Not to beg.

Not to fight.

To finish the last minutes of this old life and take the door out.

Hours later, while everyone watched Chloe like she was the bride and Adrian like he was God, I slipped upstairs, grabbed my suitcase, and walked out the servants’ entrance.

The driveway was dark.

A taxi waited where my burner app said it would.

I climbed in, heart steady.

The driver glanced at me. “Where to, miss?”

I looked once at the mansion—golden, glittering, rotten.

Then I smiled.

“Airport,” I said. “And don’t take the main roads.”

The taxi rolled forward.

And right as the gate opened, a black convoy turned the corner—Moretti cars arriving late.

In the lead vehicle, Adrian stepped out holding a bouquet of red roses like he understood romance.

He didn’t.

But the sight still burned a ghost into my chest.

He walked toward the house.

Toward Chloe.

Toward tradition.

And I rode away.

I didn’t look back.

Not once.