He Chose The Mistress Over His Queen

I was polishing a diamond engagement ring that cost more than a small island when I heard the truth.

My fiancé, the ruthless Don Dante Moretti, was telling his mistress I was nothing more than a glorified bank account.

But it wasn't until the accident that I understood the depth of his cruelty.

While training in the estate gym, a support cable snapped. I fell twenty feet, shattering my leg on impact.

Through the haze of blinding pain, I waited for Dante to save me.

Instead, he rushed to his mistress, Livia—the woman who had cut the wire.

He held her close, soothing her because the loud noise had "startled" her, while I lay broken and bleeding on the floor.

"She won't die," I heard him whisper to her later. "Pain is a good teacher."

My love for him turned to ice in that moment. He didn't just want my father's money; he was letting her plan my assassination to get it.

They thought I was just a porcelain doll to be discarded once the wedding contracts were signed.

They forgot that even a pawn can kill a king.

I wiped the tears from my face and walked straight into the territory of the Valenti Syndicate—Dante's sworn enemy.

"I don't want protection," I told the rival Don, placing the surveillance evidence on his table.

"I want to burn his entire dynasty to the ground."

Chapter 1

Elena POV

I was polishing the diamond engagement ring that cost more than a small island when I heard my fiancé tell his mistress I was nothing more than a glorified bank account.

But it wasn't until I realized he was letting her plan my assassination that I decided to burn his entire dynasty to the ground.

The ring sat heavy on my finger-a beautiful, glittering shackle.

I perched on the edge of the imported silk bed in the master suite of the Moretti estate. The room was cold. It was always cold here.

The walls were gilded in gold leaf and crushed velvet, yet they felt less like a home and more like the bars of a very expensive cage.

I glanced at the clock. Time for breakfast.

I rose and moved to the mirror. My reflection stared back at a woman who looked more like a porcelain doll than a person.

I was Elara, the dutiful fiancée. The Principessa.

I wore the Moretti blue because it was the color Dante liked. I avoided the floral perfume because he hated it. I had molded myself into a statue of perfection for a man who looked at me like I was a piece of furniture.

Three maids swept into the room. They bowed, but the gesture lacked respect.

"Good morning, Signorina," one said.

I could practically smell the disdain radiating off them-a sharp, metallic tang mixed with the scent of cheap laundry detergent. They knew. Everyone in this house knew.

"Don Dante requests your presence," the maid said, refusing to meet my eyes.

Her