The Moretti mansion was like a museum when it closed—beautiful, frigid, and full of things I wasn't supposed to touch.

Adrian's voice brought me out of my thought, "Your room is upstairs," but he didn't look at me as he unfastened his tie.

"Second door on the right."

'Your room,' not 'our room.' I clearly stood alone in this marriage, and he made it his mission that I knew it. A lone tear slid down my face as I looked away from him quickly. I couldn't let him know how much his words hurt me.

I followed behind him silently, my footsteps echoing hollow against the marble foyer. The oil paintings of stern-faced forefathers seemed to judge me with their painted eyes, as if they knew I didn't belong here. The dark wood and heavy draperies gave the place an old-money elegance that made me feel like an intruder in someone else's life. Every step reminded me that this wasn't my home—it was Isabella's home that I was trying to fill.

"The staff will be here tomorrow." His voice echoed in the large room, distant and cold. "Maria takes care of the house. You don't have to do anything if you don't want to."

The subtext hit me like a slap. Don't pretend you're the lady of the house. Don't act like you belong here. You're just filling a space until something better comes along. My chest tightened, and I had to press my lips together to keep from sobbing.

He stopped at the top of the stairs, his hand resting on the banister like he needed it for support. "I need to make some calls. Business calls."

It was barely eight PM, but I nodded anyway, my voice barely a whisper. "Of course."

He disappeared into what I assumed was his office, leaving me alone in a corridor full of family portraits. I tried not to look too closely, but one picture caught my eye and made my heart crack a little more.

Adrian and Isabella at last year's charity banquet. She was radiant in a stunning red dress, and he was looking at her like she had hung the stars themselves. The love in his eyes was so pure, so complete, that I had to grip the wall to steady myself. That's how he would never look at me. That look belonged to my sister, even now.

The blue room was beautiful—soft walls, elegant furniture, and a window that overlooked the garden. But it felt like a gilded cage. It was obviously a guest room, hastily prepared with fresh sheets and a small vase of roses that couldn't mask the loneliness seeping from every corner.

My single suitcase looked pathetic sitting on the pristine bed, like an accusation of my inadequacy. Someone had packed my belongings—probably Mother—and seeing my worn clothes in this immaculate space made my throat close up with shame. Everything I owned could fit in one bag, while Isabella had probably left behind closets full of designer gowns.

I was hanging up my few dresses when I heard a crash from downstairs, followed by a string of Italian curses that made my blood run cold.

I rushed downstairs and found Adrian in his study, surrounded by shattered glass and the sharp scent of expensive whiskey. A crystal decanter lay in pieces across the hardwood floor, amber liquid soaking into an oriental rug that probably cost more than my family made in a year.

"Don't," he said without looking up, his voice raw with pain. "Just... don't."

But I was already moving, carefully picking up the larger pieces of glass. My hands were shaking, but I couldn't stop myself from trying to fix what was broken—even if it was impossible.

"You'll hurt yourself," I said softly.

"Maybe that's the point." The words came out like broken glass themselves, cutting through the air between us.

I froze, a shard of crystal halfway to the wastepaper basket. The defeat in his voice made my chest ache.

"Adrian..."

"Do you know what she told me?" He was staring at the whiskey stain like it held the answers to everything. His fists were clenched so tightly I could see his knuckles turning white. "In the note she left. She said she was sorry, but she couldn't pretend anymore."

I set down the glass and reached for a towel, my movements careful and deliberate. I needed something to do with my hands before they started trembling too badly.

"She didn't mean to hurt you..."

"Pretend." He laughed, but the sound was hollow and broken. "Three years, Elena. Three years of planning a future with someone who was lying about loving me the entire time."

I knelt beside him, soaking up the spilled liquor while my heart shattered for him. For us. For this whole impossible situation.

"That's not true," I whispered, though even I wasn't sure anymore.

"Isn't it?" He finally looked at me, and I saw something devastating in his eyes—not just anger, but a kind of bewildered hurt that made me want to wrap my arms around him and never let go. "She left with Marco Santini. Did you know that? Your sister threw away our marriage for a man she's been sneaking around with for months."

The towel stilled in my hands. I'd suspected Isabella was seeing someone else—caught glimpses of secretive phone calls and mysterious smiles—but hearing it confirmed felt like a physical blow.

"I didn't know," I said, my voice barely audible.

"Of course you didn't. Saint Elena, always thinking the best of everyone." His voice turned cruel, and I flinched like he'd struck me. "Tell me, did you know about their affair when you agreed to this charade?"

"It's not a charade." The words came out fiercer than I intended, surprising us both.

"What else would you call it?" He stood abruptly, pacing to the window like a caged animal. "A marriage of convenience? A business transaction? You get to play house in a mansion, your father saves face, and my family avoids scandal."

Each word was a tiny knife, finding its mark with surgical precision. I could feel my composure cracking, three years of hidden feelings threatening to spill out like the whiskey on his floor.

"That's not why I—"

"Then why?" He whirled around, his eyes blazing with fury and pain. "Why would you agree to marry a man who's in love with someone else? What could possibly be worth that kind of humiliation?"

The question hung between us like a challenge, like a dare. I could tell him the truth—that I'd loved him from the first moment Isabella brought him home, that I'd spent three years pretending to be happy for my sister while my heart broke a little more each day. I could tell him that marrying him wasn't a sacrifice but the fulfillment of every secret dream I'd never dared voice.

But looking at the raw anguish in his eyes, I knew the truth would only make everything worse. He needed someone to blame, not someone else to pity.

"Someone had to," I said finally, the words tasting like ash. "Someone had to clean up the mess she left behind."

He stared at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. Then he turned back to the window, his shoulders rigid with tension.

"Get out."

"Adrian, please—"

"Get out!" The words exploded from him like a dam bursting, and I stumbled backward, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I can't... I can't stand to look at you right now."

I fled to my room, my hands shaking so badly I could barely turn the doorknob. Behind me, I could hear him moving around the study, the sound of more glass breaking, more pieces of his life falling apart.

I collapsed on the edge of the bed, still wearing my wedding dress—Isabella's wedding dress—and finally let myself fall apart.

I cried for Isabella, who had chosen love over duty and left us all to deal with the consequences.

I cried for Adrian, whose heart had been shattered by the person he trusted most.

And I cried for myself, trapped in a marriage built on lies and disappointment, loving a man who could barely stand the sight of me.

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky and rain began to lash against the windows. Even the weather seemed to mourn what this day should have been.

I had married the man of my dreams.

And it was turning into my worst nightmare.