The lights in the trauma unit were blinding.

White, sterile, and unforgiving.

The glare stung my retinas, forcing a headache behind my eyes.

A doctor was busy binding my torso, his movements efficient but firm.

"Broken rib, bruised lung," he muttered, checking the tightness of the bandages. "You're lucky to be alive, Mrs. Vitiello."

Lucky.

The word tasted like bile.

Suddenly, the door banged open, slamming against the wall.

Dante strode in.

He looked frantic, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes wild. I scanned his shirt for injuries, but it was stained with... nothing.

Mia wasn't bleeding.

"She needs blood," he barked.

He wasn't looking at me.

He was focused entirely on the doctor.

"The blood bank is critically low on O-negative. She has a clotting disorder. We need a direct transfusion. Now."

The doctor frowned, glancing down at my chart.

"Mrs. Vitiello is O-negative, yes, but she's in no condition-"

"She'll do it," Dante cut in.

Finally, he looked at me.

His eyes were hard, cold stones, devoid of any warmth.

"Do it, Serena."

A laugh bubbled up in my chest.

It was a wet, wheezing sound that scraped against my bruised lung.

"No," I said.

Dante stalked to the side of my bed.

He leaned down, his large hands gripping the metal rails, effectively trapping me.

"This isn't a request," he whispered, his voice a lethal drop of poison. "That is my child. You will save him."

"You left me in the dirt," I whispered back, the memory sharp as glass.

"I came back for you."

"An hour later. With a gardener."

"Does that matter right now? She is dying."

"She's lying, Dante."

"She is bleeding!" he shouted, the veins in his neck straining.

He signaled sharply to the nurse.

"Hook her up."

I tried to pull my arm away, a weak attempt at rebellion.

Dante grabbed my wrist.

The same wrist he had bruised at the auction.

He held it out for the nurse, exposing the vein.

"Don't fight me on this, Serena. Or I will make you regret it."

The needle slid in with a sharp pinch.

I watched the dark red liquid flow through the tube.

My life force.

Leaving me.

Going to her.

It drained me, pulling the energy right out of my marrow.

My vision blurred at the edges.

The sharp pain in my rib became a dull throb, nothing compared to the agony shredding my heart.

"Four hundred milliliters," the nurse announced.

"That's enough," the doctor said firmly. "Her blood pressure is dropping too fast."

Dante didn't wait.

He grabbed the bag of warm blood like it was holy water and sprinted out of the room.

He didn't say thank you.

He didn't check my vitals.

He didn't even look back.

I lay there for an hour, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

Then, I forced myself up.

I dragged my IV pole with me, the wheels squeaking against the linoleum.

I walked down the hall to the VIP suite.

The door was ajar.

Mia was sitting up in bed, eating a cup of red gelatin.

She looked fine.

She looked glowing, her cheeks flushed with color.

Dante was sitting in the chair next to her, his head buried in his hands, praying.

Then I saw it.

Wrapped around Mia's slender wrist.

Black onyx beads.

A silver crucifix catching the light.

Dante's Rosary.

He had sworn on his mother's grave that he would never take it off.

He said it was his connection to God.

His ultimate protection.

And now it was on the wrist of the woman who had just drained my veins dry.

Mia saw me hovering in the doorway.

She lifted her wrist, deliberately letting the beads catch the fluorescent light.

She smirked.

Dante looked up.

He saw me standing there, pale as a ghost, clutching my side to hold myself together.

"Serena, go back to bed," he said wearily.

I looked at the Rosary.

Then I looked at him.

A nurse walked by with a clipboard, pausing when she saw me.

"Excuse me, ma'am? I need to update your emergency contact info. Are you married?"

I looked Dante Vitiello dead in the eyes.

"No," I said, my voice hollow.

His eyes widened.

"I'm single."

The silence in the kitchen was heavy, suffocating.

Dante stood behind me as I chopped carrots.

The knife hit the cutting board with a steady, rhythmic thud. Chop. Chop. Chop.

"I'm sorry about the blood," he said.

He didn't sound sorry.

He sounded annoyed that he had to apologize at all.

"It was necessary. You know that."

I didn't answer.

I just kept chopping.

"We need a reset," he said. "Aspen. Just us. This weekend."

He placed his hands on my shoulders.

I stiffened instinctively.

"Mia is stable. Nonna will watch her. I want to take you to the cabin. Remember? Where we spent our honeymoon."

I remembered.

I remembered thinking I was the luckiest woman in the world.

I remembered him worshipping my body by the fire.

I remembered a lie.

"Okay," I said.

He exhaled, relieved.

"Good. But first... Mia is craving your soup. The minestrone."

I paused.

The knife hovered over a celery stalk.

My mother's recipe.

The one I only made for him when he was sick.

"She needs her strength," he said, tightening his grip on my shoulders. "Please. As a peace offering."

A peace offering.

Cooking for his mistress.

It was so absurd, so cruel, that I almost laughed.

"Okay," I said again. I forced the word out, needing him to believe I was compliant. Needing him to trust me just long enough for me to disappear.

"You're a good wife, Serena."

He kissed the top of my head.

It felt like a brand.

I made the soup.

I put every ounce of my hate into the broth, stirring it with a dark, silent fury.

I packed a bag.

Not for the trip to Aspen.

I put my passport in a hidden pocket.

I put a stack of cash I had been siphoning for months inside my boots.

I left my wedding ring on the granite counter next to the stove.

It looked small.

Insignificant.

Dante drove me to the private airfield.

He was checking his watch every two minutes.

"I left something at the house," he said as we pulled up to the jet.

"Go get it," I said. "I'll wait on the plane."

He nodded.

"I'll be right back."

He kissed my cheek.

He got back in the car and drove away.

I waited.

I waited for an hour.

Two hours.

The pilot looked uncomfortable, shifting in his seat as the engine idled.

"Mrs. Vitiello, the weather in Aspen is turning. We need to leave soon."

I checked my phone.

No calls.

Three hours.

Finally, my phone buzzed.

It was Dante.

I answered.

"You poisoned her," he said.

His voice was a shard of ice.

"What?"

"She's vomiting blood. She said the soup tasted bitter. How could you?"

"I didn't-"

"Shut up!" he roared. "I trusted you. I tried to fix this, and you try to kill my child?"

"Dante, I didn't-"

"Get on the plane, Serena."

"I'm on the plane."

"Go to the cabin."

"Are you coming?"

"No. I'm staying here to make sure my heir survives your jealousy. You go. You sit in that cabin and you think about what you've done. Don't come back until I call for you."

The line went dead.

I looked at the phone.

I looked at the pilot.

"Take me to Aspen," I said.

We landed in a blizzard.

The car service took me up the mountain.

The cabin was dark.

Cold.

There were no guards.

Usually, there were a dozen men patrolling the perimeter.

Today, there was no one.

He had stripped me of protection.

Punishment.

I walked inside.

It was freezing.

The heating was off.

I tried to turn it on.

Nothing.

I went to the kitchen.

The cupboards were empty.

No food.

He had sent me to a prison of ice.

My phone rang again.

I picked it up, my fingers numb.

"Dante?"

"Hello, Serena."

It wasn't Dante.

It was Mia.

She sounded perfectly healthy.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"He's in the shower," she giggled. "He was so worried about me. The soup was delicious, by the way. I just added a little... ipecac syrup to my bowl. It works wonders for drama."

"You're a monster."

"And you're alone."

I heard a noise in the background.

Dante's voice.

"Mia? Who are you talking to?"

"No one, baby. Just ordering pizza."

She hung up.

A low rumble shook the floorboards.

I looked out the window.

The snow on the peak above the cabin was moving.

A white wave.

Crashing down.

Avalanche.

I ran for the door.

But I was too slow.

The world turned white.

The windows shattered.

The cold hit me like a physical blow, burying me, crushing me, erasing me.

And as the snow filled my lungs, I realized the truth.

Dante Vitiello hadn't just broken my heart.

He had finally managed to kill me.

The silence inside the Aspen cabin wasn't peaceful.

It was the heavy, suffocating silence of a grave waiting for the first shovel of dirt.

I stood in the center of the living room, my breath misting in the freezing air.

The hearth was cold.

The pantry was bare.

Dante had exiled me here to reflect on my 'crimes,' stripping away the guards, the staff, and the heat.

He wanted me cold.

He wanted me desperate.

He wanted to break me so he could rebuild me into a compliant wife-one who would meekly accept his bastard child.

My phone buzzed against my hip.

I fished it out with numb, fumbling fingers.

The screen flashed a single name: Dante.

I answered, bracing myself for his rage, or perhaps his conditional mercy.

"Dante?" I whispered, my teeth chattering. "It's freezing."

"Hello, Serena."

The voice was light, airy, and sickeningly sweet.

It wasn't Dante.

It was Mia.

"Where is my husband?" I asked.

My voice trembled-not from fear, but from the bone-deep chill that had settled into my marrow.

"He's in the shower," she purred.

I could practically hear the smile stretching across her face.

"He was so worried about me after the poisoning attempt. You really are wicked, Serena. Trying to kill an unborn baby?"

"I didn't poison you."

"I know," she giggled, a sound like breaking glass. "But Dante believes I'm fragile. He believes I'm the victim. He's eating the porridge I made him right now."

A wave of nausea rolled over me.

"Put him on the phone."

"He doesn't want to talk to you. He said you need to freeze the rebellion out of your system."

I looked out the window.

The snow was falling harder now, a thick white curtain erasing the world.

Above the cabin, the mountain loomed, ominous and heavy with fresh powder.

A low rumble vibrated through the floorboards, shaking the dust from the rafters.

It sounded like a beast growling deep underground.

"Mia," I said, panic rising in my throat. "The snow. It's unstable. Tell him to send someone. Now."

"Oh, stop being dramatic. You always want attention."

The rumble grew to a deafening roar.

Through the glass, I saw the ancient pine trees on the ridge snap like toothpicks.

A wall of churning white was rushing down the mountainside.

"Mia, please!"

I heard a door open in the background on her end.

Then Dante's voice, muffled but distinct.

"Mia? Who are you talking to?"

Mia didn't answer him.

Instead, she whispered into the phone, her voice venomous.

"Die, Serena."

The line went dead.

I dropped the phone.

I turned and ran for the back door, but the roar outside swallowed the sound of my own heartbeat.

The windows exploded inward.

The world dissolved into a violent, churning whiteness.

The cold hit me like a freight train, lifting me off my feet and slamming me against the stone fireplace.

Darkness followed instantly.

And as the weight of the mountain crushed the air from my lungs, I didn't think of God.

I didn't think of survival.

I thought of the irony.

Dante Vitiello had sworn to burn the world down to keep me warm.

In the end, he was the one who left me to freeze.