"Ava had barely begun to settle into the Don's mansion when the storm arrived. She came dressed in silk and diamonds, her smile sharp enough to cut, her eyes already fixed on Dante. The moment Isabella stepped through those doors, Ava understood—this sanctuary was no longer hers alone."
The knock came early, sharp and commanding, pulling Ava out of a half-sleep.
She stirred against the silk sheets, blinking at the morning sunlight streaming through the curtains.
Before she could even sit up, the door opened.
A woman walked in without hesitation, heels clicking against the marble floor.
She was breathtaking.
Tall and slender, with sleek dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders, dressed in a fitted cream dress that hugged every curve.
A faint cloud of expensive perfume drifted into the room with her, the kind that spoke of old money and power.
Her hazel eyes swept over the room—and landed on Ava.
The disdain was immediate.
"Oh," the woman said smoothly, one eyebrow arching.
"Another one."
Ava stiffened, clutching the sheets tighter around her body. "Excuse me?"
The woman's smile was sharp, dripping with mockery. "Don't bother. You don't need to explain. I've seen it before." She stepped further into the room, her voice cold and condescending. "Dante has always had… appetites. He must've picked you up from one of those clubs last night. You'll be gone by afternoon, so I suggest you gather your things before you embarrass yourself."
Heat flooded Ava's cheeks—shame, then anger. "Who the hell are you?"
The woman tilted her head, as though amused by the question. "I'm Isabella Romano. And you, sweetheart, are no one. Just one of Dante's whores he was kind enough to drag home."
The words stung like a slap. Ava opened her mouth to respond—but the door opened again.
Dante.
He froze at the sight of the two women, his sharp gaze flicking from Isabella's poised figure to Ava sitting on the bed, bristling with indignation.
"Isabella," he said slowly, his voice laced with warning.
She turned toward him, her expression softening immediately. "Dante. I came to check on you. I heard what happened last night. I was worried." Then, with a pointed glance at Ava: "Though it seems you weren't exactly suffering alone."
Ava's chest tightened, her nails digging into the sheet.
Dante's expression hardened. He crossed the room in two strides and slipped an arm around Ava's shoulders, pulling her against him with quiet but unmistakable possessiveness.
"Watch your words," he told Isabella, his tone icy. "This is Ava."
Isabella blinked. "Ava?"
"Yes." Dante's voice left no room for argument. "She is not what you think she is."
A beat of silence stretched between them. Isabella's carefully painted smile faltered, just for an instant.
"Oh," she said finally, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "How… interesting."
She smoothed her dress, recovering her composure. "Well then, forgive my mistake. I didn't realize you were keeping company of… importance."
But her gaze lingered on Ava, sharp and assessing, as though already calculating what this meant.
Dante tightened his arm around Ava. "Leave us, Isabella. Now."
For the first time, Isabella hesitated. Her lips curved into a small, polite smile, but her eyes were glinting with something darker.
"As you wish," she said softly. "We'll speak later, Dante. Alone."
She turned on her heel and left, the click of her heels echoing down the hall.
The silence that followed was heavy. Ava could still feel the sting of Isabella's words, the humiliation of being dismissed as nothing.
Dante's hand tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. His voice was low, certain, deadly serious.
"You are not disposable, Ava. You are not like the others. Do not ever let anyone make you doubt that."
Ava's throat tightened, her chest aching. She wanted to believe him—needed to. But Isabella's venomous words still echoed in her mind.
And for the first time since stepping into Dante Moretti's world, Ava wondered if maybe… she wasn't the only one fighting for a place in it.
The mansion had gone quiet after Isabella's departure, but Ava couldn't shake the sting of her words.
One of Dante's whores.
She hated that it hurt. Hated that it planted a seed of doubt inside her. She told herself it didn't matter—that Dante's reassurance should have been enough.
But the look in Isabella's eyes, that smug certainty that Ava didn't belong here, was harder to silence.
By late afternoon, she escaped to the gardens.
The Moretti estate grounds were vast, a private world of stone fountains and rose-covered trellises, paths winding through manicured hedges that seemed to stretch on forever.
Ava found herself on a marble bench near the central fountain, the gentle trickle of water a fragile comfort against the storm in her chest.
She thought she was alone.
"Pretty, isn't it?"
Ava's head snapped up.
Isabella was standing at the edge of the path, hands clasped loosely in front of her, as though she'd simply been out for a stroll.
But her eyes—the same hazel eyes that had looked at Ava like she was dirt—were sharp and calculating.
Ava straightened, refusing to look flustered. "What do you want?"
Isabella's smile was polite, practiced. "Relax. I only wanted to talk."
"I don't think we have anything to say to each other."
"Oh, but we do." Isabella stepped closer, her heels barely making a sound on the stone path. "You see, Ava… I was cruel earlier. And perhaps I shouldn't have called you what I did."
Ava's heart lifted for a split second—until Isabella tilted her head, eyes glinting.
"But you must understand, from where I stand… that's what you look like. Another wide-eyed girl Dante pulled in for a night of fun. You're not the first. And you won't be the last."
Anger flared hot in Ava's chest. "You don't know me. And you don't know what I am to him."
Isabella's laugh was low, musical. "Oh, I know exactly what you are. You're temporary. That's not an insult, it's a fact. Dante has always been intense with his… distractions. He makes you feel like the center of his world. Until he doesn't."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Isabella's smile widened.
"Sweetheart, I grew up with him. I've known Dante Moretti since we were children. I know how he works. I know how he loves—or rather, how he doesn't." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "You're not built for this world. And he'll realize that soon enough."
Ava's throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to deny it, but Isabella's confidence, her composure, pressed down like a weight.
"I'm not going anywhere," Ava forced out.
Isabella's eyes softened in mock sympathy. "I admire your spirit. Truly. But spirit won't save you, Ava. Not here. Not with men like Dante. You think you can handle him, but he's fire. Sooner or later, you'll burn."
For a moment, the two women simply stared at each other—the roses swaying gently around them, the fountain murmuring on.
Finally, Isabella straightened, her mask of polite elegance sliding back into place.
"I won't get in your way," she said
smoothly. "Dante makes his choices, even his mistakes. But when he comes back to me—and he will—don't say I didn't warn you."
She turned and walked away, the faint scent of her perfume lingering long after her figure disappeared down the path.
Ava sat frozen on the bench, her hands trembling in her lap.
Her chest ached with fury, but beneath it, fear coiled tight.
Because as much as she hated Isabella, a tiny voice inside whispered that maybe—just maybe—she was right.
"The laughter in the garden stung Ava's ears, sharp and cruel, and when she turned she saw Isabella leaning too close to Dante, her hand brushing his arm as though she belonged there. Ava's chest tightened, her heart warring with rage and doubt. And for the first time, a dangerous question burned inside her:
What if Dante didn't choose me at all?"