Chapter 23
After the wedding celebration emptied, the reception hall fell silent except for the distant sound of departing cars.
Dante remained motionless in his chair, the bandages around his chest now completely saturated with blood. The pain from his physical wounds seemed trivial compared to the hollow ache consuming him from within.
Rosalie had changed from her wedding gown into a simple white sundress. She approached him with measured steps, carrying a small first aid kit which she placed silently on the table beside him.
“You should take care of that,” she said quietly, nodding toward his blood–soaked shirt. Her voice held neither anger nor warmth–just a calm finality.
Dante looked up, his eyes reflecting profound anguish. “Rosie… do you really not love me anymore? Not even a little?”
Rosalie didn’t respond immediately, just regarded him with unwavering resolve.
“Don’t come back to Los Angeles,” she finally said quietly. “We won’t be seeing each other again.”
The color drained from Dante’s face. “Is this really how it ends for us?”
As she turned to leave, his hand caught her wrist in a last, desperate grasp. “Wait-” his voice cracked. “Just tell me one thing. Do you truly love him? Or is this just… your way of paying me back
for what I did?”
Rosalie paused, considering his question with unexpected gentleness.
“I really do love him, Dante,” she finally said, her voice soft but unwavering. “Only a damaged person would use someone else for revenge.”
The pointed echo of his own actions hit him like a physical blow. His hand fell away as the last fragile strand of hope snapped inside him.
This wasn’t a dream or a nightmare he could wake from. This was reality–the reality he had created through his own choices. The woman who had once looked at him with pure love was now looking through him as if he were already a ghost from her past.
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After Rosalie left, Dante remained frozen, her final words repeating like a death knell in his mind: “Only a damaged person would use someone else for revenge.”
His friends approached cautiously, Marcus placing a hand on his shoulder. “You did everything you
could, man.”
Dante said nothing, staring at his empty hands. In that moment, he finally accepted the truth–he had lost her forever, and he had no one to blame but himself.
Two years later, on a sun–drenched afternoon in Los Angeles, Rosalie cradled her newborn daughter in her arms, her face glowing with maternal joy.
Alistair sat beside her on their bedroom window seat, one arm around her shoulders, gazing at their tiny creation with undisguised wonder.
“She’s perfect, Rosie,” Alistair whispered, gently touching the baby’s tiny hand. “She has your beautiful features.”
Rosalie smiled down at little Alira, named to honor both her parents–Alistair and Rosalie combined to mean “noble light.”
“But she has your eyes,” she said softly.
“So clever already. She’s going to be brilliant like her daddy.”
The moment of family tranquility was interrupted by the doorbell.
Alistair pressed a kiss to Rosalie’s temple before rising. “I’ll get it.”
When he returned minutes later, his expression had shifted subtly. He carried an elegantly wrapped package in his hands.
“It was left at the door,” he said, his tone carefully neutral as he handed it to Rosalie. “It’s from Wolf.”
A brief shadow crossed Rosalie’s face before she accepted the package.
Opening it carefully while balancing Alira in one arm, she found a legal document inside.
Her eyes widened as she quickly skimmed the pages–transfer papers for complete ownership of
brother
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Wolf Enterprises, signing over 100% of the shares to her name.
Tucked beside the documents was a handwritten note in familiar handwriting:
“I promised you a birthday surprise two years ago and failed to deliver. These shares represent everything I’ve built–it’s yours now. Beneath the papers is what I had originally intended to give you that day. Even if just for a moment, would you look at it? – D”
From the nursery, Alira’s monitoring device captured the first sounds of fussing.
Without hesitation, Rosalie dropped everything–documents, note, and box–directly into the trash
beside her.
“Someone’s hungry,” she said, rising carefully with her daughter.
The past slipped from her mind as easily as the package had slipped from her fingers.
Her present–her family–was all that mattered now.
As she left the room, a gentle breeze from the open window stirred the contents of the wastebasket.
For a brief moment, it revealed what lay beneath the documents-
A vintage diamond ring nestled in midnight blue velvet, the kind meant for a proposal that would never happen.
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