Dante’s POV

I never thought I’d speak to the world like this.

Not from behind a podium. Not flanked by cameras, reporters, and blinking red lights that looked more like warning signals than invitations.

But here I was.

On the estate steps I once ruled—standing outside her gates.

Not inside. Not beside her. But outside.

Where discarded things like me belonged.

I adjusted the cuffs of my suit—tailored to perfection, crisp, calculated. The kind of thing people notice before they hear a word you say. It wasn’t armor, but I wore it like it was.

The crowd murmured. Someone held out a microphone.

I took a breath. I let the silence stretch until it had weight. Until they leaned in.

Then I said it.

“I failed her.”

The cameras clicked. Reporters tensed. The moment landed. That was the goal. Make it land.

Not for them.

For her.

“She was never weak,” I said. “I mistook her quiet for something small. But it wasn’t. It was control. Grace. Fire, dressed in silence.”

Still no movement from the balcony. No glimpse of her. But I knew she was watching.

She had to be.

“I was taught to conquer. Taught that power was taken, never shared. And I made the mistake of treating my own wife like a threat instead of a partner.”

There was a tremble in my voice—not staged. Not rehearsed. Real.

Because I’d memorized every moment that led to this.

The look in her eyes the night she walked away. The sound of the door closing. The cold after she left. And worst of all—the echo of everything I didn’t say when it still mattered.

“I didn’t see her,” I continued. “Not really. But I do now. And I want the world to see her the way I finally do.”

Gasps. Murmurs. Sympathy from the crowd.

But none from the house behind me.

No open door. No invitation. Not even a shadow in the window.

Only the wind.

Inside, I imagined the stillness. I could see it in my mind—the staff frozen around television screens. The cook gripping her knife, unmoving. The guards at the monitors, eyes narrowed, unsure if this was war or a breakdown. Probably both.

And Aria?

She was watching. I felt it.

I pictured her in one of those high-windowed halls, cold marble beneath her heels, Luca standing beside her like some loyal shadow.

He always was too close.

And now he had the one thing I’d thrown away.

I didn’t say his name. But my fists clenched at the thought of him beside her, arms folded, gaze sharp, whispering in her ear what I never did.

That she mattered.

The press leaned in again. “Do you want her back, Don Morelli?” someone called out.

I looked straight into the lens.

“I want to make it right. Whether she forgives me or not.”

It was the truth. A bitter one.

Because this wasn’t about reclaiming a wife.

It was about atonement.

And Aria? She was no longer the girl I discarded. She was the storm I couldn’t outrun.

I paused again. Let the silence wrap around my final words.

“Power doesn’t mean domination,” I said. “It means knowing when to kneel. And today, I kneel to the woman I should’ve crowned.”

More flashes. A wave of applause from strangers who didn’t know the cost of the words I’d spoken.

But still—no response from her.

Just the closed gates behind me.