Love did not soften Dante Moretti.
It sharpened him.
Where once his cruelty was calculated and distant, it now grew intimate—aimed not at enemies, but at the woman who slept beside him and worked at his side. Dante loved Elena in the only way he knew how: by control, by possession, by fear disguised as protection.
And Elena, believing love required endurance, stayed.
At first, the changes were small.
"You don't need to attend that meeting," Dante would say, already canceling her schedule without consulting her.
"I can handle it," Elena would reply gently.
"I said no."
His tone left no room for discussion.
She told herself it was concern. That his world was dangerous. That his fear came from caring too much.
But fear, when fed, grows teeth.
Dante's temper became unpredictable.
A missed call—because Elena was in the restroom—earned her a cold silence that lasted days. A harmless conversation with a business associate ended with Dante slamming his hand against the wall beside her head.
"Do you enjoy embarrassing me?" he demanded.
Elena's voice trembled. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"You exist," he snapped. "That's enough."
She flinched then—just slightly.
Dante saw it.
Something dark flickered in his eyes.
He hated that reaction. Hated that she feared him. Hated that the fear also gave him a sense of control he couldn't deny.
The breaking point came slowly, then all at once.
One evening, during a high-level gathering at the Moretti estate, Elena stood beside Dante in a gown he had chosen for her—elegant, expensive, suffocating.
Men watched her. Women whispered.
Dante noticed everything.
When Elena spoke out of turn—offering a quiet correction to a financial detail—Dante's smile never wavered.
But his grip on her wrist tightened painfully.
"You will not speak unless I ask," he murmured, lips barely moving.
Elena swallowed. "I was only trying to help."
Later that night, in the privacy of his office, his anger exploded.
"You made me look weak," he said coldly.
"I saved you from a mistake," Elena replied, her voice steady despite the tears burning her eyes.
Dante laughed—sharp and cruel.
"You're a secretary," he said. "Nothing more. Don't forget your place."
The words struck deeper than any slap ever could.
Elena went silent.
Something inside her cracked.
From that night on, Dante pulled away.
Not physically—but emotionally.
He stopped explaining. Stopped apologizing. Stopped pretending he cared about her feelings. He treated her like property again, like an extension of his authority rather than a person.
Elena grew quieter. Thinner. Her smiles faded.
Yet she stayed.
Because love makes fools of the strongest hearts.
The end came without warning.
One morning, Elena arrived at work to find her desk cleared.
Security stood nearby.
Dante waited inside his office, standing, expression unreadable.
"What is this?" Elena asked softly.
"You're leaving," Dante said.
Her heart stuttered. "Leaving where?"
"Out of my life."
The words were final. Absolute.
"You're fired," he continued. "Effective immediately."
Elena stared at him, disbelief draining the color from her face. "Did I do something wrong?"
Dante looked away.
"Yes," he said quietly. "You became a weakness."
The truth lay heavy between them.
Elena nodded slowly, dignity trembling but unbroken.
"Thank you," she said.
Dante frowned. "For what?"
"For showing me who you really are."
She turned and walked out without begging. Without pleading. Without looking back.
That was the moment Dante should have stopped her.
He didn't.
Years passed like ghosts.
Dante rose higher. Ruthless as ever. Untouchable.
But something was missing.
His nights grew longer. His victories felt hollow. The silence of his penthouse screamed louder than gunfire.
He searched for Elena without admitting it.
She was gone.
No trace. No rumor. No shadow left behind.
And that was when regret finally found him.
Not with violence.
Not with rage.
But with memory.
Elena's quiet strength. Her unshaken gaze. The way she loved him without demanding anything in return.
Dante Moretti had broken many people in his life.
But Elena Russo was the only one whose absence broke him.