The Temple of Dendur at The Met was awash in iridescent light tonight. The massive floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the night sky over Central Park, while champagne towers refracted the hypocritical smiles of the elite. The air was thick with a specific anxiety—the tension where "Old Money" meets "New Money." I wore the black backless gown Roman had chosen, the ruby necklace around my neck weighing as heavy as a shackle. I held Roman’s arm, playing the role of the perfect "Mrs. Sterling." "That's Senator Miller," Roman whispered in my ear, a polite smile plastered on his face while his eyes remained cold as ice. "Don't smile too sincerely at him. He'll be out of office next month due to a bribery scandal; he won't even keep his house in The Hamptons. The one we need to support is over there—the young prosecutor chatting with the real estate tycoon." I nodded mechanically, feeling like a marionette on strings. "I'm going to discuss some business over there. Ten minutes." Roman patted the back of my hand. "Go chat with those Upper East Side wives about charity, or discuss whose child got into Dalton." He let go and headed straight for a group of men standing in the shadows of the hall. Several "Godfather-level" figures from Brooklyn stood there; despite their Tom Ford tuxedos, the air of banditry was impossible to conceal. Feeling suffocated, I turned toward the restroom, desperate to escape the nauseating mix of perfumes. No sooner had I entered a stall than I heard voices outside. Two socialites were touching up their makeup, their voices shrill and cutting, carried by typical Manhattan nasal tones. "Did you see Roman Sterling? God, he's even sexier in person than in *Vanity Fair*." "Don't even think about it. He's famously obsessed with his wife. Although..." the other voice lowered, "have you heard? *Page Six* is dropping a bombshell tomorrow. Rumor has it he's getting very cozy with Isabella Moretti." My heart skipped a beat. Isabella Moretti—the heiress to the Italian mafia family, the very faction Roman had been trying to absorb. "Seriously? His wife is right outside." "It's a business marriage, who takes it seriously? The Moretti family controls the docks in Brooklyn and Jersey; Roman has wanted that territory for ages. They say Isabella is practically handing the family business to him. Everyone says Isabella is the lioness who can actually stand beside that beast. As for that Elena... she's just a porcelain doll sitting in a Fifth Avenue window." I shoved the stall door open with a bang. The two women looked at me in horror, lipstick smeared across their faces. I ignored them, walked straight to the sink, and splashed cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looked pale, but something in her eyes was shattering, then reassembling. I walked out of the restroom, cut through the crowd, and found Roman by the massive stone pillars of the Egyptian temple. Isabella was standing beside him, dressed in a fiery red gown, wine glass in hand, her body almost pressed against his. She was laughing—a loud, brazen laugh filled with Brooklyn wildness. Roman didn't push her away; in fact, the corner of his mouth held a hint of amused intrigue. I walked over. Isabella shot me a provocative glance and made no move to step back. "Roman," I interrupted them, my voice unnervingly calm. "We need to talk." Roman frowned, seemingly displeased by my lack of decorum. "Elena, I'm discussing business. Miss Moretti is explaining the logistics system of the docks." "Business?" I let out a cold laugh, pointing at Isabella. "Does that include tomorrow's *Page Six* headline? About your 'commercial cooperation'?" Isabella let out a contemptuous scoff, speaking in English thick with an Italian accent. "Roman, your little wife seems jealous. How cute." Roman's face darkened. He grabbed my wrist, his grip hard enough to hurt. "Elena, don't make a scene here. Isabella is important to the Group." "More important than me?" I stared into his eyes. This was the last chance I was giving him. Roman sighed, his eyes revealing a weary condescension. "It's business, Elena. You are my queen; that is a fact no one can change. But she..." He glanced at Isabella, his tone indifferent. "She is just a pawn. Don't be ungrateful. I do all of this to give you a better life." *Pawn. Queen.* In his eyes, neither of us were people. We were merely objects on his board. In that moment, the last flickering flame in my heart went out. "I am a human being, Roman." I shook off his hand and took a step back. "Not your trophy, and not your queen." "Where are you going?" His voice turned cold. "To fix my makeup," I lied, my eyes empty. "You're right. I should go talk to the wives about whose kids got into the Ivy League." I turned and walked into the crowd without looking back. But I knew this wasn't just a turn; it was a farewell. ---