Chapter 1

At my engagement party, my fiancé, Dominic Valenti, swapped my ring for a two-dollar plastic one.

Meanwhile, the most expensive ring in the family vault—a three-million-dollar pink diamond—was sitting on the finger of his childhood friend, Elena.

Laughter broke across the room.

I froze and looked instinctively at Dominic.

He only smiled, perfectly at ease. “Just reminding you ladies that a wedding ring isn't a trophy.”

Dominic Valenti was the Don of New York's most powerful crime family. Only a few days earlier, he had taken me into the family vault himself and told me to choose any ring I wanted.

I had passed on the three-million-dollar pink diamond and picked a simple platinum band worth five hundred dollars.

Now that band had been replaced with plastic, while the diamond I had never even touched was on another woman’s hand.

Elena covered her mouth with a soft laugh. “Congratulations, Serena.”

Dominic noticed me looking at her hand and frowned.

“She closed the Bellini deal for Valenti Holdings. The ring was her bonus.”

“You’re not seriously going to make an issue out of that, are you?”

His mother, Gianna, smiled as though she were smoothing over some harmless misunderstanding.

“If you really want to marry into this family, you can’t care so much about money and jewelry.”

I looked down at the plastic ring for a few seconds.

Then I smiled.

“Dominic. Do you really think I have no choice but you?”

And suddenly, I remembered the job offer in Paris I had turned down six months ago.

Maybe I didn’t have to marry him after all.

...

The room went quiet for a beat.

Dominic looked almost surprised. One eyebrow lifted.

“Serena, this is our engagement party. Don’t say things you don’t mean just because you’re upset.”

He reached for my hand, his tone almost patient.

“What difference does it make to you whether the ring costs two dollars or five hundred?”

“You’re the one who said you didn’t care about the price. It was a joke.”

I looked at his outstretched hand and didn’t move.

Once someone is sure you'll never leave, cruelty becomes a punchline.

Gianna stepped closer and reached for my arm.

“Serena, Dominic can be blunt. You know that.”

“You’re going to build a life together. Is a ring really worth making a scene over in front of everyone?”

I gently pulled my arm away.

“It’s a little late to worry about appearances.”

Her smile stiffened.

Across the head table, Elena seemed to realize at last that she should look embarrassed. She hurried to take off the diamond ring.

“Serena, if you really want it, you can have it back.”

She started to hold it out.

Dominic stopped her first.

“I gave it to you. It’s yours.”

He said it as if that settled everything. Only then did he look back at me.

“You’ve never been the kind of woman who fights over things like this.”

I almost laughed.

No, I wasn’t.

For years, all Dominic had to say was, “You’re the reasonable one,” and somehow that meant I was supposed to be the one who gave in.

Elena said our wedding photographer wasn’t prestigious enough, so he replaced the entire team.

She had a nut allergy, so he had every dessert containing nuts removed from the engagement menu.

I had never thought any of it was worth arguing over.

Until today, I hadn’t realized that if you refuse to keep score long enough, people start assuming you don’t have limits.

I slipped off the plastic ring and set it back in the box.

“Then let’s leave it at that.”

Dominic frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I didn’t explain. I picked up my purse and walked out.

Behind me, someone quietly told him he should go after me.

Dominic’s answer was calm.

“No. She’ll come back when she cools off.”

I didn’t slow down.

The night air hit me when I stepped out of the private club in Manhattan.

My first call was to the wedding planner.

“Linda, cancel everything for October eighteenth.”

She went silent for two seconds.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“What about Mr. Valenti—”

“You don’t need to ask him.”

I looked at the engagement sign outside the club, our names written together in elegant gold lettering, and felt strangely light.

“It’s my wedding. I’m not having it.”

My second call was to my attorney.

“Tomorrow, I want the ownership split on the Tribeca condo, the closing costs, and the deed for the parking space in my name.”

My third call was to the director of the studio in Paris.

Six months earlier, they had offered me a one-year design residency in Paris.

I had turned it down because the wedding was approaching.

When she picked up, I asked only one question.

“Is the position still open?”

She laughed.

“For you? Always.”

I didn’t hesitate.

“Then I’m coming.”