I turned the unlocked doorknob and slipped out the hotel's service elevator before the sun was fully up, then took a cab to an upscale Italian café in neutral territory—far from the syndicate's usual haunts.

Luca was already sitting at a corner table.

He stood up when I walked in, his eyes carefully scanning my face as I sat across from him.

"Thank you for pulling me out of the pool last night," I said quietly.

Luca leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed. "Sienna, you're different today. You haven't looked at me like that in years."

I picked up the menu, avoiding his gaze. "Like what?"

"Like you completely forgot about me."

I put the menu down and met his eyes.

Luca let out a long sigh and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.

"During our junior year of college, I confessed my feelings to you," he said, his voice tight. "You turned me down."

I was stunned.

I truly didn't remember Luca.

But I couldn't risk exposing my amnesia. If I did, anyone could manipulate me.

"You were completely infatuated with Caspian. To appease his insane jealousy, you cut off all your male friends."

Luca shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "To stay near you and make sure you were safe, I had to stoop to being a low-ranking grunt in this dangerous underworld."

I stared at the coffee cup in front of me.

The tragic reality of my past submission hit me like a punch to the gut.

I had isolated myself entirely for a man who wouldn't even save me from drowning.

At that moment, I realized I had to hide my amnesia from Caspian at all costs.

If he knew I had forgotten, he would use it to trap me all over again.

The bell above the café door jingled loudly.

The temperature in the room plummeted the second Caspian walked in.

Flanked by four massive soldiers in dark suits, Elena stood right beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm.

Caspian's gaze locked onto Luca.

His massive frame radiated a lethal territoriality as he strode toward our table, his very presence terrifying the few civilians in the shop into absolute silence.

Before he could even speak, I stood up.

"We're breaking the oath. Who I see is none of your business."

I raised my voice, making sure every guard heard me publicly denounce his suffocating control.

Caspian didn't even glance at me.

He stared at Luca with murderous intent. "The West Side Port was the price you paid to stay away from my wife."

Luca sneered, leaning back and crossing his arms. "I just wanted to buy her a cup of coffee. Seems you lack confidence in your own charm."

Caspian took a step forward, his hands balling into tight fists.

Feeling a strong surge of disgust, I grabbed my purse from the chair.

Caspian's hand shot out, clamping tightly around my arm.

I looked down at his grip, then pointed at Elena standing a few feet away.

"Give the papers to my lawyer, Caspian. Other than that, we have nothing to talk about."

I yanked my arm hard, but his grip was like a vice.

I raised my voice, ensuring the entire café could hear me. "I'm done playing the supporting role to your shadow mistress."

Shocked, Caspian's grip loosened just enough for me to break free.

I turned my back on the Don and walked out the front door, Luca right by my side.

As the chilly morning wind brushed against my face, I finally understood why the 27-year-old me had wanted to end her life.

Living under the crushing weight of his coldness would break anyone.

I had moved out of the penthouse.

I found a cheap, rundown apartment on the outskirts of the city—a place off the beaten path, far from his territory.

I sat on the lumpy mattress, staring at the peeling wallpaper.

My ringtone shattered the silence.

Caspian's name flashed on the cracked screen.

I answered, my tone completely flat.

"Where are you?"

It wasn't a question; it was a dark, commanding demand.

"Did you sign the lawyer's papers?" I countered.

The line went dead.

He hung up on me.

Three hours later, the flimsy wooden door to my apartment was kicked in.

The cheap wood splintered, the deadbolt shattering and scattering across the faded linoleum floor.

Caspian stepped over the broken threshold and into the cramped living room.

His towering silhouette blocked the dim light from the hallway, casting a long, dark shadow over me.

He scanned the dingy room, his upper lip curling in disgust.

He demanded, "Why is my wife living in a rat hole instead of her rightful home?"

I stood up, crossing my arms over my chest.

"I'm serious, I'm leaving you," I said coldly. "Why are you still holding on to me?"

Caspian closed the distance between us in two long strides.

"I do not want a divorce," he growled. "Saving Elena was an instinct I was trained for since childhood; it wasn't from the heart."

He stepped right into my personal space, looking down at me from above.

The heat radiating from his body washed over my skin.

Refusing to back down, I pressed my hands firmly against his solid, unyielding chest.

"Where are the papers, Caspian?" I demanded.

He ignored my question, staring deeply into my defiant eyes.

He raised his large hands and, with a gentleness that almost hurt, cupped my face.

His voice grew deep and husky, echoing in the quiet room like a command.

"Wife, come home. You belong in my bed."

I let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

His arrogance was astounding.

I grabbed his thick wrists and shoved his hands away from my face.

"We're done," I spat. "I'm sick of the bulletproof glass, the smell of disinfectant, and the gun under your pillow. Get out."

I shoved him toward the broken doorway.

He let me move him, but his dark, tempestuous eyes never left my face.

He finally stepped out into the dim hallway, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife.

I slammed the broken door shut as best as I could, leaned against it, and let out a shaky breath.

Later that night, I sat cross-legged on the floor, the glow of my laptop lighting up the dark room.

I was browsing a secure social network, checking on the family's recent activities.

A new photo popped up on my feed.

It was posted by Elena.

It was a carefully framed close-up: a steaming cup of coffee resting quietly on a polished mahogany desk.

Draped casually over the back of the heavy leather chair behind the desk was a custom-tailored black suit jacket.

I instantly recognized it as Caspian's.

It was a subtle, calculated message broadcasted to the entire underworld—hinting at her unshakeable position by his side.

I stared at the bright screen, an icy, hollow sneer forming on my lips.

I clicked the "Like" button on the photo.

Then, I typed out a comment for everyone in the Syndicate to see:

"Long live the Don and his Princess!"

I hit send, watching the text finalize on the screen.

Then, with a decisive click, I permanently blocked Elena's account.

I picked up my phone, opened my contacts, and deleted Caspian's name from the list.

Finally, I blocked the Don's number, severing my final tie to him completely.

I went to the small art gallery where I worked as a curator, seeking the comfort and routine of familiarity.

A brand-new, matte black armored SUV was parked menacingly in front of the glass doors.

Caspian leaned against the hood, radiating a lethal aura.

His mere presence terrified the morning commuters on the sidewalk, forcing them to cross the street just to avoid his line of sight.

He pushed himself off the car the moment he saw me.

"Did you block my number?" he demanded.

His tone was fiercely controlled, masking a dangerous vulnerability beneath.

I didn't break my stride, walking right past him toward the gallery entrance.

"Yes," I replied coldly. "I needed a break anyway. Why don't we just go see the mob lawyers now and get the divorce settlement sorted out?"

The air around him turned heavy and freezing.

He moved faster than I could react, stepping in front of the door and blocking my path with his broad chest.

"Unblock me," he ordered.

"Sorry." I admitted fault bluntly. "I shouldn't have blocked you."

His expression briefly softened, taking on a stiff, unfamiliar huskiness of a forced apology: "I'm sorry, darling, you know I love you. I never broke my oath."

I rolled my eyes: "Blocking you just makes signing the divorce papers inconvenient."

Caspian's face darkened: "Add my number back."

I swiped at my phone: "I can't. I forgot your number."

Caspian went terrifyingly stiff.

He stepped into my space, bending down until his face was mere inches from mine.

"Did you really forget?"

His gaze was sharp as a blade, as if trying to slice through me to find any trace of a lie.

I avoided staring into those dark depths, merely brushing past his shoulder: "That's right. I forgot."

"How could you forget? You loved me so much. Darling, do you have amnesia?"

My body froze: "We're done. Why would I bother remembering your phone number?"

But he moved with the swiftness of a predator.

Before I even registered it, he had snatched my phone away.

"Give that back!" I snapped.

He ignored me, tapping the screen to wake it up.

His thumb punched in his own birthday.

The screen buzzed aggressively, signaling an incorrect passcode.

"Did you change it?" he demanded through gritted teeth.

I remained stubbornly silent.

As he stared at the lock screen, a flash of genuine pain crossed his rugged, chiseled face.

He punched in another six-digit sequence.

The date of our Mafia blood oath.

Failed.

He stared at the device for a very, very long time.

Then, his long fingers entered a new set of numbers.

My birthday.

The phone clicked unlocked.

Caspian gave me a dark, terrified look that made my breath catch in my throat.

His thumb moved rapidly across the screen.

He instantly reset the passcode to our wedding anniversary.

"Give it back." I snatched the phone angrily from his hand.

I tapped the screen to open my messages, but it was locked again.

I quickly typed in my birthday.

Failed.

"What did you do?" I demanded furiously.

Caspian just stood there, watching me.

I stared at the screen, genuinely confused.

I tried his birthday again. Still nothing.

I looked up at him, anger boiling over.

"What numbers did you use?"

Caspian's gaze sharpened, cutting like a razor.

He saw the genuine confusion in my raw reaction.

I watched his sharp mind piece the scattered fragments together.

"Ever since you woke up from your suicide attempt, you've been like a different person," he stated with absolute certainty. "Sienna, it seems you have amnesia..."