---- Chapter 19 Isabella POV: Life in Portugal was quiet. It was serene. It was mine. | lived in a small cottage overlooking the sea, rented from a kind, discerning woman named Elena Russo who quickly became my closest friend. My photography, once a forgotten hobby, became my life. | poured all the pain, the rebirth, and the quiet joy of my new existence into my work. My gallery, a small, unassuming space in the village, began to attract attention. Elena brought me a laptop one evening, her expression grim. "You should see this," she said. It was the interview. | watched Giovanni, my husband-no, my former husband-fall apart on national television. He looked terrible. Gaunt, broken, a shadow of the powerful man he once was. | watched his confession, his desperate, public plea. And | felt... nothing. A vague, detached pity, perhaps. Like watching a sad movie about a stranger. The woman he was begging for, Isabella Moretti, was dead and buried. | was Isabella Rossi now. "That poor man," Elena said, watching my face for a reaction. ---- "He seems to be in a great deal of pain." "He is," | said simply. | closed the laptop. "What should we have for dinner?" Elena understood. She never mentioned him again. My life blossomed. | had friends. My work was gaining acclaim. | traveled, capturing images of the world with a clear, unburdened eye. Aman started visiting my gallery. His name was Luca Bianchi, an art dealer from Lisbon. He was kind, intelligent, and his eyes held a genuine admiration for my work, not just for my face. He was Elena's brother. He asked me out for dinner. | said no. He asked again a month later. | said no again, but this time | smiled when | said it. He was patient. He understood that | was a woman who was learning to be her own anchor. Meanwhile, the ripples of Gio's downfall reached me through filtered news reports Elena would occasionally mention. He'd been ousted from his company. He had become a recluse. Then, a tragic figure, a cautionary tale. He was liquidating his temaining assets, pouring everything he had left into a global, obsessive search for his "missing" wife. A man chasing a ghost. My first international exhibition was in Paris. My work was a critical success. | was no longer the Don's wife. | was a celebrated artist in my own right. ---- My life was full. It was beautiful. It was whole. One day, | received a small, discreet envelope from my lawyer in the States. It was an obituary, clipped from a newspaper. Giovanni Moretti had died, alone, in a hotel room in Monaco. He had spent his last dollar chasing a lead that went nowhere. | read it, and felt a single, fleeting pang of pity for the man he used to be, and the man he had never allowed himself to become. There was no grief. There was no sadness. There was only the quiet, profound peace of a cage door that had long been open. | was free.