The Runaway Wife: Never Forgiving You
Chapter 5
I secured my violin case, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I needed to leave.
More than that, I needed to get to Luca.
Keeping my head down, I tried to slip out the side exit near the kitchen, hoping to disappear into the shadows.
But I didn't make it.
Three women blocked my path, forming a wall of silk and hostility.
They were the wives of men Dante had hurt to protect me years ago, and they hadn't forgotten.
"Going somewhere?" one asked, stepping closer.
"Please," I said, my voice trembling. "I just want to leave."
"Sofia told us everything," another said, her lip curling.
"She said you paid people to hurt her."
"That's a lie," I said, shaking my head frantically.
"She paid us to teach you a lesson," the third one said.
She grabbed my arm.
Her nails dug into my skin, sharp and stinging.
I pulled back instinctively.
I stumbled.
My heel caught, and I hit the table behind me hard.
The champagne tower towering above me teetered.
Then, gravity took hold.
It crashed down on top of me.
Glass shattered everywhere, exploding in a deafening cacophony.
Shards cut into my arms and face.
I lay in a puddle of expensive wine and blood, the cold liquid soaking instantly through my dress.
Suddenly, Sofia appeared.
She looked down at me, a mask of horror slipping perfectly into place.
"Oh my god!" she cried out, her voice pitching high for everyone to hear.
"She tried to bribe these women to hurt me, and look what happened!"
The guests circled around, closing me in like vultures.
They threw napkins at me, as if I were something dirty that needed to be covered up.
"Trash!" someone yelled.
"Whore!" another shouted.
I looked through the forest of legs, searching for a lifeline.
And then I saw Dante.
He stood at the edge of the circle, unmoving.
He held a glass of whiskey, his grip loose, casual.
He watched me lying in the broken glass.
His eyes were cold.
Dead.
He took a slow sip of his drink and turned away.
He left me there.
That was the moment the last thread snapped.
I didn't feel the cuts anymore.
I didn't feel the shame.
I felt nothing.
I stood up, glass crunching beneath my feet.
My dress was soaked, heavy with wine and ruin.
I limped through the crowd.
They parted for me, not out of respect, but out of disgust.
I walked out of the ballroom.
I walked out of the hotel.
I walked out of the Vitiello world.
I was alone.
And for the first time in ten years, I was free.
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