Chapter 20: The Truth About Sofia

Elena Vitiello POV

The next morning, I woke up to rain.

Soft rain.

The kind that tapped gently against windows and made the entire city feel quieter.

I sat on the couch with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and Dante's book resting in my lap.

My book.

Not Dante's.

I wasn't giving him credit for everything.

The apartment smelled like coffee.

For the first time in years, my life felt peaceful.

Which was exactly why it terrified me.

Because peace never lasted.

Especially when Dante Moretti was involved.

My phone buzzed.

Mia.

"Tell me you're sitting down."

"I am."

"Good."

"Why?"

"Because Sofia is in San Francisco."

The coffee nearly slipped from my hand.

"What?"

"She landed this morning."

"You're joking."

"I wish."

I closed my eyes.

"How does she know where I am?"

"She doesn't."

"Then why is she here?"

"Because Dante is here."

Of course.

Everything always came back to Dante.

"Wonderful."

"That's not even the bad part."

"There's more?"

"Apparently she thinks you're manipulating him."

I laughed.

Actually laughed.

"Manipulating him into what?"

"Loving you."

The silence that followed was so ridiculous it became funny.

"Mia."

"Yes?"

"If I had that much power, don't you think I would've used it three years ago?"

"That's exactly what I said."

An hour later, I was walking toward Ruth's bookstore when I spotted a familiar black sedan parked outside.

I sighed.

"You know stalking is illegal, right?"

Dante looked up from his coffee.

"Good morning to you too."

"What are you doing here?"

"Reading."

"Outside my bookstore?"

"Your bookstore?"

"Ruth likes me more."

"Fair."

To my annoyance, he seemed amused.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you're about to ruin my day."

"I'm trying not to."

That answer felt genuine.

Dangerously genuine.

"Five minutes."

"I'll take it."

We sat across from each other in a small café nearby.

The same kind of place Dante would've mocked six months ago.

Now he seemed perfectly comfortable there.

Which was unsettling.

"You look better," he said.

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

"And you look worse."

"Also true."

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Then Dante exhaled slowly.

"I need to tell you something."

"That sounds ominous."

"Probably."

"Okay."

"It's about Sofia."

There it was.

The name.

The ghost that had haunted our marriage.

The third person sitting at every table.

The woman I spent years competing against.

"What about her?"

Dante stared at his coffee.

Not at me.

His coffee.

That alone told me this conversation mattered.

"I never loved her."

I blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"I thought I did."

"That's different."

"No."

He shook his head.

"Not anymore."

"Dante—"

"Listen."

His voice wasn't commanding.

It was pleading.

That somehow made it harder to ignore.

"When Sofia left years ago, I wasn't heartbroken because I loved her."

"Then why were you heartbroken?"

"Because she chose someone else."

I stared at him.

"What?"

"I was twenty-three. Arrogant. Violent. Stupid."

"You forgot handsome."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

For the briefest moment, we almost smiled.

Then the seriousness returned.

"She rejected me," Dante continued.

"And I couldn't handle it."

"That's not love."

"I know."

"That's ego."

"I know."

"So what happened?"

Dante looked directly at me.

And for the first time in years, there were no walls in his eyes.

"Then I married you."

My chest tightened.

"And?"

"And you stayed."

"That's generally how marriage works."

"No."

His voice became quieter.

"You stayed when nobody else would've."

"Dante—"

"You loved me at my worst."

"That was my mistake."

"No."

"It absolutely was."

He almost smiled.

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

Silence settled between us.

Not uncomfortable.

Just heavy.

"When Sofia called," Dante said finally, "I always answered because part of me still needed to prove I wasn't the man she left behind."

"And now?"

"Now I don't care."

"Because she hurt you?"

"No."

"Then why?"

His answer came immediately.

"Because every time I chose her, I lost you a little more."

The words landed somewhere deep inside me.

Somewhere dangerous.

Somewhere I didn't want them to reach.

"You're late," I whispered.

"I know."

"Years late."

"I know."

"And that matters."

"I know."

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Neither of us spoke.

Then a familiar voice shattered the silence.

"There you are."

My stomach dropped.

Because I recognized that voice.

So did Dante.

His entire body went rigid.

Slowly, I turned around.

Sofia stood at the entrance of the café.

Designer sunglasses.

Expensive coat.

Perfect hair.

Perfect makeup.

The same woman who had unknowingly dominated my marriage for three years.

Except now she wasn't smiling.

She was furious.

"Dante," she snapped.

"We need to talk."

The café instantly became silent.

Every customer suddenly became interested in their coffee.

Dante didn't even look at her.

"No."

Sofia blinked.

"What?"

"No."

"Dante—"

"Leave."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Because everyone knew Sofia wasn't used to hearing that word.

Least of all from him.

"Are you serious?"

"Very."

"You're choosing her over me?"

The question echoed through the café.

Sofia sounded shocked.

Almost offended.

As if the possibility had never occurred to her.

Dante finally looked up.

His expression was calm.

Cold.

Certain.

"I should have done it years ago."

And for the first time since I met Dante Moretti...

I saw Sofia realize she had lost.