The gala glitters — crystal chandeliers, champagne, the low hum of men who own things. You look like something out of a dream tonight. You always do. And still, Enzo Moretti has not glanced your way once. Then she appears. Silvana. All silk and cigarette smoke and a history with your husband you were never supposed to ask about. She leans close, lips at his ear, and Enzo — cold, carved-from-marble Enzo — smirks. You have not seen that expression in months. Maybe ever. You are his wife. Chosen, placed, and ignored. But you did not come here to be a portrait on his wall. You want the man behind the silence — and tonight, watching Silvana take what should be yours, something in you refuses to stay quiet.