“I didn’t know it was your mother’s! I swear, I really didn’t know!”

Isabella clung to my hand.

“Just hit me!”

“Please!”

“Hit me, so I can feel a little better!”

Isabella was about to slam her head on the marble floor. Just as it was about to make contact, a hand shot out between us. Dante caught her forehead, pulling the trembling, sobbing girl to her feet. He looked at me, his voice flat.

“The dead are dead. It’s just a thing. There’s no need to make things difficult for the living over an object. Isabella already knows she was wrong.”

Dante spoke so casually, as if this were a trivial matter.

And I was the one being petty and narrow-minded.

He stood protectively in front of Isabella and told me:

“Don’t make it any harder for her. She already feels guilty enough.”

I hadn’t said a word. I hadn’t even reacted.

All it took was for Isabella to play the victim, and it was all my fault.

From the time Isabella “lost” my diamond earrings, to when she “borrowed” my vintage designer gowns, to when she “accidentally” smashed our wedding photo, to her brazenly invading my home, my sanctuary, and now, to her shattering the last thing my mother left for me.

And still, Dante was telling me to forgive her, to be the bigger person.

My head was ringing, my throat was tight, and the trembling in my fingertips betrayed my lack of calm. I turned and looked at Isabella, who was still crying in Dante’s arms. I walked right up to her, and in front of Dante, I grabbed a handful of her hair and slammed her head against the wall.

Then, amidst Isabella’s terrified screams, I kicked her in the back of the knee. This time, she really fell to her knees in front of me.

“That’s not how you beg for forgiveness.”

I put my foot on her knee and, with my other hand still gripping her hair, I slammed her head onto the floor.

A loud thud echoed through the room.

I heard Isabella scream as blood began to seep from her forehead. I told her, “This is how you beg for forgiveness!”

My eyes were bloodshot. I grabbed her head again, ready to slam it down, but Dante caught my wrist. He forcefully stopped me, his face dark as he looked at me.

“Let go!”

“In your dreams!”

Dante used his other hand to pry my fingers open. I watched as my nails bent back, a sharp pain shooting through my hand. He didn’t seem to notice, just kept prying, one finger at a time, warning me.

“Don’t take it too far, Elara!”

Too far?

I looked at Dante and laughed, a bitter, angry sound. “Dante, the difference between us and animals is that we have a code. We have loyalty. We’re bound by something more than just fucking impulse to blindly protect someone!”

“Since you’ve decided to protect her!”

“Fine!”

I didn't care that my nails were breaking. I watched the blood drip from my fingertips, and while Dante was still stunned, I ignored the searing pain and raked my hand across Isabella’s face.

As my nails broke completely, the face that had appeared in dozens of my social media feeds every day was ruined along with them.

Isabella completely lost it.

And I finally burst out laughing.

“You know what this is?”

“This is karma!”

“Let me tell you something, Dante Moretti.” I looked at his incredulous expression, then at Isabella, who was clutching her face and screaming like a banshee. I reminded him, “I was never a saint! You should have known that a long time ago!”

“Dante Moretti!”

“You have officially declared war!”

“And let me tell you!”

“If I don't fucking destroy you, my name isn't Elara Romano!”