Chapter 10
“I’m promising dinner.”
His expression softened.
“Dinner is enough.”
“For now.”
“For as long as you need.”
She closed the velvet box and slipped it back into her handbag.
This time, everyone in the room saw exactly what she put there.
Dante offered his hand.
Isabella looked at it.
Then took it.
Not because he had proved she was innocent.
She had never needed him to do that.
Not because Carlo had confessed.
Not because Sophia had apologized.
And not because Dante Moretti was powerful enough to destroy anyone who crossed her.
She took his hand because when she walked away, he had finally learned the difference between possession and love.
Possession demanded that someone stay.
Love made itself worthy of their return.
A year later, the sapphire necklace came out of the family vault again.
This time, there were no accusations.
No searches.
No locked doors.
Sophia fastened it around Isabella’s neck herself.
Katarina adjusted her veil.
Marco stood outside the chapel pretending he was not emotional.
And Dante waited at the altar.
When Isabella reached him, he looked down at the engagement ring on her finger.
Then at her.
“Are you sure?”
The old Dante would never have asked.
Isabella smiled.
“Completely.”
He exhaled.
And when the priest asked for the rings, Dante slipped a simple wedding band onto her finger.
No empire could have forced her back.
No family name could have bought her forgiveness.
She returned because Dante had finally understood the promise hidden beneath every ring he had ever given her.
Trust was not something you demanded after placing a diamond on someone’s hand.
It was something you proved when everyone else was telling you to doubt them.
And Dante Moretti had learned that lesson the night Isabella left his ring beside a stolen necklace and walked out.
He had almost lost her because he needed evidence to believe in her.
He got her back only after he understood that she needed evidence, too.
Evidence that he had changed.
And this time—
he gave it to her.
Three weeks after I married Dante Moretti, someone left a photograph on our bed.
Not under the door.
Not in the mailbox.
Not with one of the guards.
On our bed.
Inside a house protected by twenty-four-hour security, motion sensors, cameras, armed men, and enough locked gates to make most federal buildings look welcoming.
I found it at 6:17 on a Tuesday evening.