Too Late To Apologize, Mr. Billionaire

For seven years, I scrubbed floors, cooked books, and hid my identity as the Vitiello heiress just to test if Dante Moretti loved me for me, not my father’s power.

But the massive digital billboard in Times Square froze the blood in my veins.

It wasn’t my face next to his under the headline "The King and his new Queen." It was a cocktail waitress named Lola.

When I walked into the lobby to confront him, Lola slapped me across the face and crushed my late mother's locket under her stiletto heel.

Dante didn't defend me. He didn't even look sorry.