So this was what I had become in Dante's world. Not his wife. Not his partner. Just the pitiful, laughable slut they whispered about behind closed doors, in back rooms where men smoked and settled debts and talked about women the way they talked about territory.
They always said the Falcone heir was distant, refined, and perfectly composed. A man who never let his emotions slip, who wore his civility like armor, the way his father wore authority. I hadn't believed it before. I thought I knew him better than that. But now, standing here with humiliation still clinging to my skin, I finally saw the truth with painful clarity.
I drew in a slow breath, forcing my shaking body to steady. I swallowed down the bitterness clawing up my throat, pushed aside the sting in my chest, and reached for the door. When I opened it, the murmur of voices inside cut off instantly, as if someone had snapped a thread.
Dante and his friend both turned to look at me.
Dante met my eyes without hesitation. His expression was calm, almost indifferent, as if nothing had happened at all. "Sorry for the trouble," he said, his tone even and detached.