The first thing I noticed when my husband walked into my baby shower was not that he was forty-two minutes late.
My skin went cold.
“Why?”
“Because if your husband is preparing documents that require your signature, we need to know what that signature actually does.”
That afternoon, I returned home and found Dante assembling a crib in the nursery.
His jacket was thrown across a chair.
His sleeves were rolled up.
He was holding the instructions upside down.
I leaned against the doorway.
“You’re terrible at that.”
He looked up and smiled.
“Our son will never know.”
For twenty minutes, I almost believed we were still us.
He asked about the baby.
I corrected the crib rail he had installed backward.
When our son kicked, Dante placed his hand on my stomach and laughed softly.
Then his phone lit up on the carpet.
Natalie Cross.
Dante grabbed it.
Too fast.
“Business,” he said.
“Of course.”
Natalie had been my closest friend for nearly eight years.
She knew where I kept emergency keys.
She had cried beside me during my first ultrasound.
She had helped choose the nursery wallpaper.
She had once joked that our son would call her Aunt Nat whether Dante liked it or not.
That night, while searching my office for an old warehouse agreement, I found a document I had never seen.
A consolidated financing statement.
I read the first page.
Then the second.
Then I stopped breathing.
Supporting collateral included East Pier Warehouse One.
East Pier Warehouse Three.
The Bella Vista Harbor lease.
And a logistics platform I had created before marrying Dante.
None of them belonged to him.
Beside them was a notation.
Available under continuing spousal authorization.
I had never given that authorization.
Claire’s voice changed when I called her.
“Listen carefully. Don’t let him know you found this.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody has represented your assets as available collateral.”
“Can he do that?”
“Not legally without authority.”
“What happens if he doesn’t have authority?”
A pause.
“His refinancing could collapse.”
“And if I sign?”
“That depends entirely on what they put in front of you.”
Now, standing beneath blue ribbons at my own baby shower, I understood.
The divorce papers were not only divorce papers.
They were a key.
And Dante needed my hand to turn it.
Dante moved closer.
“You should sit down,” he said.
The concern in his voice sounded polished now.
Practiced.
“This stress isn’t good for the baby.”
I looked at his hand on my arm.
He removed it.
Around us, whispers resumed.
Lucia approached.
“Isabella, darling, please. Don’t make financial decisions while you’re upset.”
I looked at her.
“What financial decisions?”
Her hesitation told me more than her answer.
“Dante said you’ve been worried about accounts.”
I turned toward my husband.
There it was.
He had prepared this.
He had not merely brought divorce papers.
He had prepared a version of me.
Pregnant.
Emotional.
Exhausted.
Confused.
If I objected, I was unstable.
If I cried, I proved him right.
If I signed, everyone went home believing Dante had handled a difficult private matter.
My fear disappeared.
Not because I became brave.
Because anger finally became clearer than fear.
I reached into my purse.
Dante’s eyes followed my hand.
I removed one folded document.
“Routine financial decisions?” I asked.
His shoulders stiffened.
I opened the consolidated financing statement.
“Then explain something simple.”
“Not here.”
“You decided ‘here’ was appropriate when you served me divorce papers.”
“Isabella.”
“Why did you tell Continental Republic Bank that East Pier warehouses could support Moretti debt?”
Several people at the tables stopped pretending not to listen.
Dante stepped closer.
“Put that away.”
“Do you own East Pier Warehouse One?”
His jaw moved.
“Those properties have supported our operations for years.”
“Do you own it?”
Nothing.
“Warehouse Three?”
“Stop.”
“The Bella Vista lease?”
“Enough.”
“My logistics platform?”
Dante’s control finally cracked.
“Who gave you that document?”
I felt the baby move.
I rested my palm over him.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You didn’t ask whether it was accurate.”
Dante glanced toward the briefcase.
I saw it.
A reflex.
Small.
But I knew my husband.
Whatever sat inside that case mattered more than the papers in my hand.
“Open the briefcase,” I said.
His eyes snapped back to mine.
“No.”
Thirty-seven guests went silent.
“Open it.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Then prove me ridiculous.”
His father, Victor Moretti, stood from a table near the terrace.
Victor was seventy-one and had retired from day-to-day control of the family companies years ago, but rooms still changed when he spoke.
“Open the case, Dante.”
Dante turned.
“Stay out of this.”
Victor’s face hardened.
“She is carrying my grandson. You brought legal papers to her celebration. I believe you invited all of us into it.”
My phone vibrated.
Claire.
I answered.
“Go to the signature page,” she said without greeting.
I opened the agreement.
“Read the acknowledgment.”
My eyes moved across the language.
Then stopped.
By signing, I would acknowledge receipt and review of all financial disclosures contained in Exhibit C, including marital-property guarantees and collateral commitments.
I flipped backward.
Once.
Twice.
There was no Exhibit C.
My mouth went dry.
“Claire, there’s no exhibit.”
“Ask him where it is.”
I lifted my eyes.
“Where is Exhibit C?”
Dante’s face changed.
“Standard drafting language.”
Claire heard him.
“That’s not standard if the exhibit doesn’t exist in her copy.”
I put the phone on speaker.
Dante’s expression darkened.
“Turn that off.”
“No.”
“Give me the agreement.”
“No.”
“Isabella.”
“Where is Exhibit C?”
He reached for the papers.
I stepped backward.
Victor came closer.
“What is Exhibit C?”
Dante ignored him.
Claire answered.
“Apparently the document describing property guarantees Mrs. Moretti would be acknowledging by signing.”
Victor looked at his son.
“Guarantees for what?”
No answer.
My eyes returned to the briefcase.
“Is it in there?”
Dante did not move.
Victor spoke again.
“Open it.”
The latches clicked.
Dante lifted the lid.
Inside were two folders and a laptop.
The lower folder had a bank logo.
I saw four words before Dante lowered the lid.
Final Refinancing Closing Package.
Claire went quiet.
Then she asked me, “When does the existing Romano guarantee expire?”
“Twelve days.”
Dante looked at me.
And suddenly the entire picture sharpened.
The late-night meetings.
The valuations.
The missing account access.
The rush.
The public pressure.
The invisible Exhibit C.
I stared at my husband.
“You don’t need me gone.”
His face emptied.
“You need me signed before the guarantee expires.”
Nobody spoke.
Not even Dante.
That was the moment my marriage ended.
Not when he said divorce.
Not when he humiliated me in front of everyone.
It ended when I understood that my husband had taken the trust between us and converted it into a financial strategy.
I handed the papers to Claire’s assistant, who had arrived at the gate while we were speaking.
Then I turned toward Emma.
“Help me pack a bag.”
Dante followed me into the house.
“Isabella.”
I kept walking.
“This does not need to become a war.”
I stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
My hand rested on the banister.
“I don’t want a war.”
He exhaled.
“Good.”
“I want an audit.”
His face hardened.
“You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I finally understand what you’ve been doing.”
I left the estate before midnight.
I took one overnight bag.
My medical records.
The divorce packet.
My laptop.
And a tiny blue blanket someone had given me that afternoon.
I left the jewelry.
The paintings.
The expensive dresses.
The wedding photographs.
Dante stood beneath the front portico as Emma helped me into the car.
For six years, I had known how to read every emotion on his face.
Anger.
Pride.
Desire.
Suspicion.
Control.
That night I saw something new.
Fear.
At 8:16 the next morning, Claire sent preservation notices to the bank and every administrator connected with the disputed guarantees.
At 9:05, a forensic accountant began reviewing records I was legally entitled to access.
At 9:23, Claire walked into the sitting room of my parents’ house carrying a folder.
Her face made my stomach drop.
“What?”
She put the folder down.
“We identified Belladonna Strategic Holdings.”
I opened it.
One name sat near the top.
Proposed Executive Director.
Natalie Cross.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
My best friend.
Claire turned another page.
Almost two million dollars had been transferred toward the new entity.
Projects I had developed were scheduled to move under its management after the refinancing closed.
Communications.
Development coordination.
Executive events.
Several harbor projects.
My name had been removed.
Natalie’s had been inserted.
My phone rang.
Dante.
I answered.
“Come home,” he said.
No apology.
No explanation.
“Why?”
“Because yesterday became something it never needed to become.”
I looked at Natalie’s employment agreement.
“How long have you been sleeping with her?”
Silence.
There are questions where silence is merely silence.
And there are questions where silence becomes a confession.
Dante finally said, “Who told you that?”
My chest cracked open.
I closed my eyes.
“Thank you.”
“Isabella, wait.”
I hung up.
Then I cried.
Not beautifully.
Not silently at first.
I bent forward and covered my mouth because the sound coming out of me frightened even me.
My mother rushed into the room.
I shook my head.
I could not explain yet.
I placed one hand over my belly.
My son kicked.
That made me cry harder.
Because Natalie had touched that same stomach.
She had whispered to him.
She had bought him books.
She had helped me choose his name.
Betrayal from strangers is violence.
Betrayal from someone who knows the code to your front door is something else entirely.
Five minutes later, I washed my face.
Then I returned to the table.
Claire looked surprised.
“We can stop for today.”
“No.”
“Isabella—”
“No. Show me everything.”
Before noon, the accountant found the condition tying Natalie’s appointment to completion of the refinancing.
Then he found the line tying refinancing to my acknowledgment.
My signature at the baby shower would not merely have accepted a divorce.
It would have confirmed I had reviewed Exhibit C.
A document I had never received.
And that acknowledgment could have preserved access to Romano collateral while removing me from the companies using it.
Claire put another page before me.
Natalie’s employment agreement.
Dante’s signature appeared at the bottom.
Next to it, in his handwriting, were four words.
Upon Isabella’s execution, transition immediately.
I stared at them.
That sentence hurt more than learning about the affair.
Dante had already planned the morning after me.
At 9:03 the following day, Dante learned something powerful men often discover too late.
An empire can start collapsing without anyone firing a shot.
Continental Republic Bank requested proof that the Romano guarantees remained valid.
East Pier refused authorization for one Moretti shipment until ownership instructions were clarified.
A major waterfront escrow was paused.
Two lenders requested updated collateral schedules.
Nobody attacked Dante.
Nobody threatened him.
Nobody needed to.
People simply started asking him to prove that what he controlled actually belonged to him.
His call came at 10:14.
“What did you do?”
I was sitting beside Claire and the accountant.
“Good morning, Dante.”
“Don’t play games with me. The bank froze the closing.”
“I didn’t freeze anything.”
“East Pier stopped my cargo.”
“It isn’t your pier.”
Silence.
“You’re destroying our son’s inheritance because you’re angry about Natalie.”
That hurt.
He knew it would.
My hand settled over my stomach.
“Our son is not collateral.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Then don’t use him to frighten me.”
“If Moretti Holdings loses liquidity, everything I built for him suffers.”
I opened another folder.
“His inheritance is protected.”
Dante paused.
“What does that mean?”
“Four months ago, I created an independent trust for him. Thirty-five percent of my protected family interest transfers for his benefit.”
“You did what?”
“It cannot guarantee your loans. You cannot pledge it. I cannot pledge it. No future spouse can touch it.”
He said nothing.
“You thought pregnancy made me careless,” I said quietly. “It made me more careful.”
The accountant slid one page toward me.
An email.
Natalie to a senior Moretti adviser.
Once Isabella signs, can Dante activate my authority before she realizes the Romano guarantees remain attached?
My skin chilled.
“Dante.”
“What?”
I read the sentence aloud.
His silence changed.
I knew immediately.
“You didn’t know she wrote that.”
“Send me the email.”
“No.”
“Isabella.”
“You thought you were replacing me with Natalie.”
I looked at the email.
“But you never asked whether Natalie planned to replace you too.”
The emergency meeting began at noon the following day inside a glass boardroom forty floors above Manhattan.
Dante arrived first.
Natalie sat beside him.
She wore ivory.
Of course she did.
Her hair was perfect.
Her makeup was restrained.
She carried one of the leather project portfolios I had ordered three years earlier.
Twenty minutes later, I entered wearing a simple navy dress.
No security entourage.
No diamonds.
No performance.
Just me.
Seven months pregnant.
One black folder in my hand.
Dante stood.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I put my folder on the table.
“Neither should half my property.”
Nobody smiled.
I sat opposite him.
Claire distributed verified ownership schedules.
Dante spoke first.
“Let’s stop pretending this is about financing. My wife discovered an affair and is weaponizing corporate assets because she’s angry.”
I let him finish.
Then I opened my folder.
“East Pier Warehouse One.”
I slid the ownership certificate forward.
“Romano Maritime Trust.”
Another page.
“East Pier Warehouse Three. Romano Maritime Trust.”
Another.
“Bella Vista Harbor lease. Romano Heritage Holdings.”
Another.
“Logistics software platform. Isabella Romano Ventures.”
I looked around the table.
“Dante can frighten people. He can influence people. He can persuade people.”
Then I looked directly at him.
“He cannot frighten a deed into changing its owner’s name.”
Natalie leaned forward.
“Those assets have supported Moretti operations for years.”
“Used by Moretti does not mean owned by Moretti.”
“You’re destroying everything because your marriage failed.”
I turned toward her.
This woman had once cried when my son’s heartbeat came through an ultrasound speaker.
“When you accepted my position, Natalie, did Dante tell you the position didn’t own the assets?”
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
But enough.
She looked at Dante.
He did not look back.
For the first time, Natalie understood what she had actually been promised.
A throne bolted to somebody else’s floor.
The forensic accountant entered carrying a sealed packet.
“We found the archived closing package.”
Dante’s attorney stood.
“What package?”
The accountant connected a laptop to the boardroom screen.
The missing Exhibit C appeared.
My name was beneath a collateral authorization.
My stomach tightened.
“That’s not my signature.”
Dante stared at the screen.
Then he said something I did not expect.
“It wasn’t supposed to be signed.”
Natalie turned sharply.
“What?”
The room changed.
The accountant enlarged the metadata.
“The authorization was executed eleven days before the baby shower using a Moretti executive credential.”
Every eye moved to Dante.
He slowly stood.
“I did not authorize that signature.”
I studied him.
And for the first time in days, I believed him.
He was a liar.
He was an adulterer.
He had planned to pressure me.
But the shock on his face was real.
The accountant opened the access log.
“The credential belonged to Mr. Moretti’s office.”
Dante’s attorney frowned.
“Then what’s the issue?”
“The device didn’t.”
Another line appeared.
Device owner.
Lucia Moretti.
Nobody moved.
Dante’s mother.
I remembered Lucia at the shower telling me pregnancy made ordinary concerns feel enormous.
I remembered her pity.
Now I wondered how much had actually been guilt.
Dante ordered someone to bring her upstairs.
Lucia arrived twenty minutes later wearing black.
She stopped when she saw the screen.
Dante walked toward her.
“Tell me that’s wrong.”
She looked at me.
Not him.
That was answer enough.
“Mother.”
His voice cracked.
“Did you authorize Isabella’s signature?”
Lucia sat.
“I protected this family.”
Dante stared.
“By forging my wife’s name?”
“By preventing everything your father built from collapsing because you became reckless.”
Victor Moretti closed his eyes.
Lucia turned toward the board.
“The bank had concerns that Romano collateral support would disappear once the divorce became public. Dante insisted Isabella would sign. I wasn’t certain he could control the timing.”
I felt physically sick.
“So you signed for me before he even served me.”
“It was temporary.”
I laughed once.
The sound surprised everyone.
“Forgery is temporary now?”
“Once you signed the agreement, the preliminary authorization would have been replaced by legitimate documentation.”
There it was.
The full trap.
My signature at the baby shower would have acknowledged receiving Exhibit C.
A document I did not receive.
Afterward, my legitimate signature could be used to make the earlier false authorization far more difficult to challenge.
Dante looked at his mother as if she had become a stranger.
“You knew what I was planning.”
Lucia gave him a bitter smile.
“Everyone knew except Isabella.”
“Not everyone,” the accountant said.
He opened another email chain.
Three days before Lucia created the false authorization, someone had warned that I might independently review the collateral schedule.
That person suggested accelerating the divorce.
Removing my access.
Limiting the chance that I would discover anything before signing.
The sender was Natalie.
Dante turned slowly toward her.
Natalie’s face lost all color.
I stared at her.
“You helped decorate my nursery.”
She looked away.
I continued.
“You sat beside me at my doctor’s appointment while you were planning to remove me from my own company.”
“Isabella—”
“Don’t say my name like we’re still friends.”
The accountant raised one hand.
“There’s one more line.”
He enlarged the end of Natalie’s email.
After refinancing closes, Dante becomes unnecessary to Belladonna governance.
Dante read it.
Once.
Twice.
He looked at Natalie.
“You were going to remove me?”
She said nothing.
“Answer me.”
“Belladonna needed independence.”
“You mean you needed my name until the closing.”
Silence answered for her.
Something almost cruelly poetic filled the room.
Dante betrayed me to build Natalie a future.
Natalie betrayed Dante to take that future for herself.
Lucia betrayed both of us because she believed preserving the empire excused anything.
Every person in that room had treated my consent as an inconvenience.
My property as leverage.
My pregnancy as weakness.
My silence as surrender.
Claire placed a restructuring agreement in front of me.
“The decision is yours.”
Dante looked across the table.
For the first time since I had known him, there was no command in his face.
“What do you want?”
I remembered the baby shower.
The cream envelope beside tiny blue clothes.
Everyone watching.
Dante telling me to sign so we could avoid something uglier.
I had loved him once.
Part of me still loved the man he had been when we lived in a small apartment near the river and ate cold takeout on moving boxes because we couldn’t find the plates.
I loved the man whose hands shook when he heard our son’s heartbeat for the first time.
I loved the man who once drove three hours through a storm because my father was in the hospital and I was too frightened to drive alone.
That was the cruelty of betrayal.
The person who destroys you is rarely made entirely of darkness.
If he were, leaving would be easy.
“Complete separation of Romano assets,” I said.
Dante closed his eyes briefly.
“Every unauthorized collateral representation withdrawn.”
Claire took notes.
“Independent review of every guarantee.”
I looked at Natalie.
“Belladonna receives no authority over property it does not own.”
Then Lucia.
“The false authorization goes to the lender and the legal review committee.”
Lucia stiffened.
“Isabella.”
“No one buries it.”
“Think about your son.”
My hand moved over my belly.
“I am.”
Her voice softened.
“Then think about the family name he’ll inherit.”
I stared at her.
“My son will inherit something more important than your last name.”
“What?”
“The knowledge that love does not require surrendering your boundaries to protect someone else’s lies.”
Lucia looked away.
Natalie gave a bitter laugh.
“You’ll destroy Dante.”
I turned toward her.
“No.”
I gestured toward the documents.
“I’m stopping him from using what was never his.”
Dante looked at me.
“And Moretti Holdings?”
“You keep what actually belongs to you.”
The meeting continued for nearly three hours.
Accounts were separated.
Guarantees were suspended pending review.
Belladonna’s authority was frozen.
Natalie was removed from all transition decisions.
Lucia’s authorization was referred for independent investigation.
At 4:37 p.m., people began leaving.
Natalie left first.
She never apologized.
Lucia followed with Victor.
Eventually only Dante, Claire, his attorney, and I remained.
Claire gathered the last folder.
Dante said, “Can I have a minute with my wife?”
I almost corrected him.
Not anymore.
But the divorce was not final.
Technically, he was right.
Claire looked at me.
I nodded.
She and Dante’s attorney stepped outside.
Dante remained standing by the windows.
Manhattan spread beneath him.
For years I had watched powerful people become nervous when Dante entered rooms.
Now he looked smaller.
Not physically.
Truth simply made the room larger than he was.
“Was any of it real?” he asked.
I knew what he meant.
Six years.
Our first apartment.
The night he proposed with a ring hidden inside an empty coffee mug because he had forgotten the elaborate plan he had prepared.
The first warehouse acquisition we negotiated together.
The miscarriage we never told anyone about.
The night we conceived the child I was carrying now.
The nursery.
The crib.
The white roses.
“Mine was,” I said.
His eyes closed.
Those two words hurt him more than screaming could have.
He looked at my wedding ring.
I removed it.
Slowly.
For one second I remembered the day he had put it there.
Then I placed it on the table.
“You were allowed to stop loving me, Dante.”
He looked down.
“You were allowed to leave.”
“I know.”
“You were even allowed to fall in love with someone else, though I would have hated you for it.”
His jaw tightened.
“But you decided that leaving me meant you were entitled to everything I built.”
He said nothing.
“That was your mistake.”
“I never wanted to hurt the baby.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t hide behind him again.”
“I’m not.”
“You served his mother divorce papers beside his cake because you thought the room would pressure me into signing.”
His eyes met mine.
“I thought if it happened publicly, it would stay controlled.”
“Controlled for whom?”
No answer.
I picked up my bag.
He spoke before I reached the door.
“Isabella.”
I stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
For weeks, I had imagined hearing those words.
In some versions, they healed something.
In reality, they simply arrived too late.
“I believe you.”
Hope flickered across his face.
I continued.
“And I’m still leaving.”
Three months later, my son was born on a rainy Tuesday morning.
I named him Nicholas James Romano-Moretti.
Dante was at the hospital.
Not in the delivery room.
That privilege had belonged to my sister and my mother.
But after Nicholas was born, I allowed Dante fifteen minutes.
He entered quietly.
No guards.
No expensive coat.
No commanding voice.
He looked at the baby in my arms.
Everything in his face broke.
“Can I?”
I hesitated.
Then I handed him his son.
Dante held Nicholas like the child was made of glass.
My son opened his tiny eyes.
Dante cried.
I had seen him furious.
I had seen him injured.
I had watched him remain calm while men twice his size lost courage.
I had never seen him cry.
“He has your mouth,” I said.
Dante laughed through it.
“Poor kid.”
I smiled despite myself.
That surprised us both.
He looked down at Nicholas.
Then back at me.
“I signed the final divorce agreement yesterday.”
“I know.”
“Claire said you requested shared parenting with safeguards instead of sole custody.”
“He deserves a father if his father learns how to be one.”
Dante swallowed.
“I will.”
“Don’t promise me.”
I looked at our son.
“Show him.”
He nodded.
There was no reconciliation.
No dramatic kiss.
No sudden restoration of the life we had lost.
Some things can be forgiven eventually without being rebuilt.
The Romano guarantees were permanently separated from Moretti Holdings.
Belladonna collapsed without access to my assets.
Natalie lost every position tied to the proposed restructuring.
I never spoke to her again.
Lucia faced legal and financial consequences for the false authorization. Dante did not protect her from them.
His empire survived.
Smaller.
Leaner.
Forced, for the first time, to exist on property and businesses he actually owned.
And strangely, I think that made him a better man.
Not immediately.
Men like Dante do not become different because they lose one argument.
But fatherhood humbled him in ways defeat never had.
He arrived for scheduled visits.
He changed diapers badly.
He learned how to sterilize bottles.
He once called me at two in the morning because Nicholas had hiccups and Dante was convinced something was medically wrong.
“You run companies worth millions,” I told him.
“Millions don’t hiccup.”
I laughed for nearly a minute.
Life became strange.
Not perfect.
Not clean.
But honest.
Six months after Nicholas was born, I stood at the window of the nursery in my new house outside Rye while morning rain touched the glass.
My son slept against my chest.
I thought about the baby shower.
About the black briefcase.
The envelope.
The humiliation.
For a long time, I had believed that afternoon would become the ugliest memory of my life.
Instead, it became the day I learned something I should have understood years earlier.
Power is not always the loudest person in the room.
Sometimes power is knowing what belongs to you.
Sometimes it is reading the page everyone expects you to sign.
Sometimes it is asking one more question after someone powerful tells you to stop asking.
And sometimes it is leaving without destroying the person who tried to destroy you.
My phone vibrated.
A message from Dante.
Nicholas needs more of the green pacifiers. I bought blue ones. Apparently blue is unacceptable. Your son is unreasonable.
I looked down at our sleeping baby.
I typed back.
Your son inherited that from you.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally he replied.
Probably.
I smiled.
Not because I wanted my old marriage back.
I didn’t.
I smiled because for the first time, Dante and I were speaking without strategy.
Without hidden documents.
Without fear.
He had lost the right to choose what my future looked like.
I had lost the illusion that love alone could protect a marriage.
But Nicholas had gained something better than a perfect family.
He had two parents learning that love without respect becomes ownership, and that family without boundaries becomes a prison.
I kissed his forehead.
He stirred against me.
Outside, the rain began to stop.
Months earlier, at my baby shower, Dante had mistaken my silence for defeat.
He had been wrong.
Silence had simply given me time to read.
And when I finally answered him, I needed only one truth.
You may choose to leave my life, Dante.
You will never choose what I lose when you go.
THE END
