Chapter 1 - The Woman Wearing My Husband’s Shirt
At 11:47 on a rainy Thursday night, Isabella Rossi woke up to the sound of another woman laughing downstairs.
It wasn't a happy sound.
It was the brittle, shaking laugh people make when terror leaves them nowhere else to run.
Isabella opened her eyes in the dark master bedroom of the Moretti estate.
Beside her, Dante’s side of the bed was cold.
He had slipped away nearly an hour earlier after receiving a muted call from Marco, his security chief.
Before leaving, Dante had kissed her temple and whispered five simple words: "Security problem. Go back to sleep."
She had tried.
Yet now, a strange woman’s voice was echoing up through the grand marble foyer.
Isabella threw back the duvet, pulled on a dark silk robe, and tied the sash tight.
She stepped out into the shadowed hallway.
The compound was running on an emergency footing.
Guards in tactical vests stood by the stairwell, their weapons held low and ready.
Marco Bianchi was pacing near the front archway, speaking hurried Sicilian into a radio.
And by the roaring stone fireplace stood Dante.
He wore an unbuttoned black shirt, his sleeves rolled past his forearms, his jaw carved from solid slate.
Directly in front of him sat Valentina.
Her dark curls were dripping wet from the relentless rain outside.
A burgundy cashmere coat hung loosely from her bruised shoulders.
And across the left side of her jaw was a deep, angry purple welt that cut into her hairline.
Dante’s head snapped upward the moment Isabella’s slipper touched the top marble step.
His amber eyes locked onto hers with cold calculation.
"Why are you awake?" he demanded.
Isabella walked down the grand staircase without breaking eye contact.
"Apparently, I missed the part where we started receiving guests at midnight."
Valentina turned slowly, surprise flashing across her battered face before she managed a hollow smile.
"You must be Isabella."
"And you must be the security problem," Isabella countered as she reached the bottom step.
Marco coughed into his hand, suddenly finding his phone intensely fascinating.
"I suppose I deserve that," Valentina murmured, taking a sip of whiskey from a trembling glass.
Her hands weren't just shaking for effect.
They were rattling violently against the heavy crystal tumbler.
Isabella’s irritation cracked, replaced by cold instinct.
"What happened to you?"
"Someone broke into her apartment," Dante answered flatly. "Two men. Forced entry."
"They did that?" Isabella looked at the swelling mark across Valentina’s cheek.
"One of them did," Valentina whispered. "The police don't handle my family's business very well."
Isabella didn't need further translation.
The Ducas were another powerful family, another ancient alliance, another dangerous shadow from Dante's past.
Dante took a heavy step toward Isabella, trying to steer her away.
"Go upstairs, Bella. I’ll handle this."
"No." Isabella stood her ground, looking right into his eyes. "If she’s staying under our roof, I have a right to know why."
Dante’s jaw clenched tight.
"She’s staying tonight."
"Tonight?" Isabella repeated, her voice dead level. "Did you decide that before or after I came down the stairs?"
"She has nowhere else to go right now. This isn't the time."
This isn't the time.
Those four words always meant Dante had already issued an executive order without her.
Isabella looked at Valentina's bruised face and shivering frame.
She had self-respect, but she was not heartless enough to throw a battered woman out into the storm.
"One night," Isabella conceded, drawing a clean line in the sand. "On one condition: she does not stay in the East Wing."
The East Wing was their sanctuary—their private master suite, Dante's study, and her studio.
Valentina’s eyes flickered, recognizing the boundary immediately.
Dante nodded without hesitation.
"Agreed. The downstairs garden guest suite."
Isabella turned and climbed the stairs alone, leaving them by the dying fire.
Back in their bedroom, she sat upright against the pillows.
The grandfather clock chimed 12:20.
Then 12:40.
Dante still had not returned to bed.
At 12:44 AM, Isabella stood up to fetch a glass of water from the corridor bar.
She unlatched the heavy bedroom door and pulled it open.
She froze instantly in her tracks.
Standing at the top of the grand staircase, right at the threshold of the East Wing, was Valentina.
Her soaked clothes and wet coat were completely gone.
Instead, Valentina was draped in an oversized, double-woven black cotton button-down shirt.
A shirt that fell softly to her mid-thighs.
A shirt Isabella recognized in a heartbeat.
It was Dante’s shirt.
He had worn that exact shirt two nights ago while wrapping his arms around Isabella on their private terrace.
Valentina looked down at the rolled sleeves around her wrists, then slowly lifted her gaze.
For three suffocating seconds, the hallway was dead silent.
"Oh," Valentina murmured with a faint, breathy smile.
"I was looking for the kitchen."
Isabella didn't blink, her voice turning to ice.
"That belongs to Dante."
Valentina touched the mother-of-pearl buttons, running her fingers gently down the dark fabric.
"Yes, I know. My clothes were soaked."
"There are twenty robes downstairs," Isabella whispered, her blood turning cold.
Valentina stepped half an inch closer, tilting her head with quiet malice.
"I asked for something comfortable. And Dante gave me his shirt."
Isabella stared at her.
For the first time that night, she saw something strange in Valentina's expression.
It wasn't triumph.
It was fear.
Real fear.
Valentina's eyes shifted toward the security camera mounted at the end of the corridor.
Then she whispered something so quietly Isabella almost missed it.
"If you love Dante, stop asking him to explain himself."
Isabella's stomach tightened.
"What does that mean?"
Valentina's smile disappeared.
"Because the person he trusts most is the person who is watching this hallway."
A floorboard creaked behind them.
Dante.
He appeared at the far end of the corridor.
His gaze dropped to the shirt.
Then to Isabella.
Then to Valentina.
His expression was unreadable.
"Why are you both awake?"
Isabella folded her arms.
"Why is your ex-fiancée wearing your shirt?"
Dante closed his eyes briefly.
"Because her clothes were soaked."
"I know what she told me."
"Then you have your answer."
"No." Isabella's voice hardened. "I have an explanation. Those aren't the same thing."
Valentina stepped backward.
"Don't fight."
Isabella looked at her.
"This isn't your marriage."
Valentina's eyes flashed.
"I know."
Then she looked at Dante.
"Tell her."
Dante's face became stone.
"Not here."
"Then where?"
"Valentina."
"You promised me."
Isabella's pulse jumped.
"Promised what?"
Dante turned toward Isabella.
"Go back to bed."
She laughed once.
A quiet, humorless sound.
"No."
He frowned.
"Bella."
"I married you, Dante. I did not marry your secrets."
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then an alarm began screaming downstairs.
Every guard moved simultaneously.
Marco shouted into his radio.
"North gate breach!"
Dante shoved Isabella behind him.
Valentina froze.
And suddenly the woman who had been wearing Isabella's husband's shirt wasn't the most suspicious person in the hallway.
She was the only person who knew exactly who had just crossed their perimeter.
Valentina grabbed Isabella's wrist.
"The north gate," she whispered. "That's where they expect me to run."
Isabella looked at her.
"How do you know?"
May you like
Valentina stared directly into her eyes.
"Because they were waiting for me long before I arrived."
