Elena POV:

Exhausted and numb, I sank into the back of the Maybach. Killian and Dallas sat in the front, their whispered conversation a dull hum I couldn’t bring myself to process. I felt invisible, a ghost in the backseat of my own life.

I replayed every instance of Dallas's cruelty, every single torment Killian had dismissed as a misunderstanding or a harmless prank. He had never seen it. He had never wanted to see it.

The world outside was a blur of city lights until a sudden, blinding glare filled the car. A large truck, its horn blaring, slammed into the passenger side of the Maybach with a deafening shriek of twisting metal.

The car crumpled like a tin can. Airbags deployed with a violent hiss. My head snapped back against the headrest, and the side window shattered, showering my face in shards.

I felt a warm trickle of blood trace a path from a cut on my forehead.

Killian’s first and only instinct was to protect Dallas. He threw his body over hers, shielding her from the impact, frantically checking her for injuries. He didn’t so much as glance into the rearview mirror.

He wrenched his door open and pulled a whimpering Dallas from the wreckage, shouting for medics, his entire focus on her.

My vision blurred. My head was pounding, and a thick knot of shock and grief in my throat kept me from calling out his name.

Through the shattered window, I watched him carry Dallas toward the flashing lights of an ambulance without a single backward glance, without a single thought for me.

Before the darkness pulled me under, I remembered a promise he’d made on a starry night years ago, his lips against my ear.

“No matter what happens, Elena. I will always choose you.”

I woke up in a sterile white hospital room. The air was thick with a cloyingly sweet scent. The room was filled with peonies, massive bouquets of them on every surface.

A flower I am violently allergic to.

A fact he once knew as well as he knew his own name.

Elena POV:

A nurse bustled in, her expression a bright mask of professional cheerfulness that felt like sandpaper on my raw nerves.

"Oh, you're awake! Mr. Emerson had us fill the room with these for you. Isn't he the most romantic man?"

She gestured to the peonies, their cloying scent clogging my throat, making my eyes water and my skin begin to itch.

Romantic. He'd forgotten my severe allergy.

It wasn't just a detail; it was everything.

He didn't love me. He loved the idea of being a man who loved his wife, a man who filled her hospital room with flowers. The specific flower, the specific woman, didn't matter.

The door opened and Killian stepped inside, holding a vase of lilies—another flower he should have known I disliked.

He looked tired, a shadow of a bruise under his eye.

"You're awake," he said, his voice tentative, as if testing the temperature of the room.

I said nothing. My eyes remained locked on the vase of peonies on the nightstand.

With a surge of cold energy, I shoved it.

It crashed against the floor, shattering, sending a spray of water and petals across the white linoleum.

"Get out," I whispered, the words barely audible.

Instead of leaving, he knelt, playing the part of the caring husband, picking up the larger shards of glass.

"Elena, let's just talk."

He cut his finger. A drop of red welled on his skin. His eyes instinctively flickered to mine, that old, familiar search for sympathy.

I turned my head away, staring at the blank wall.

"It was a tactical decision," he said, his voice low as he straightened, wrapping a tissue around his bleeding finger. "In a hit, you protect the most vulnerable asset first. Dallas was on the passenger side. It was just… tactics."

He offered me a box of my favorite chocolates, a peace offering. I slapped them out of his hand.

They scattered across the floor, mixing with the broken glass and ruined flowers.

"I said, get out."

The mask slipped. The patient, concerned husband vanished, and the ruthless Don I knew so well emerged.

His jaw tightened, his eyes hardening to ice.

"Don't be stupid, Elena. Who do you think is paying for this room? Who paid for every single one of Leo's medical bills before…"

He trailed off, the threat hanging in the air between us.

My finger, trembling slightly, pointed to the door.

Killian stared at me for a long, hard second. Then he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The sound echoed in the silent room, and finally, the tears came.

Hot, silent tears of grief and a sheer, soul-crushing exhaustion.

Dallas POV:

I sauntered into the hospital room, the scent of antiseptic and Killian’s cloying peonies making my nose wrinkle.

Elena was sitting up in bed, looking pale and pathetic. A charity case. That’s all she’d ever been—something Killian had scooped out of the gutter in a moment of weakness.

"You really don't belong in this world, do you?" I said, letting the door click shut behind me.

I leaned against the wall, crossing my arms. "Still playing the victim."

I pulled out my phone. "Remember this?" I hit play on a video from high school. Me, holding her down. The compass in my hand. The glint of the needle as I carved the word "Worthless" into her wrist. Her pathetic little sobs.

"Killian’s seen it," I added casually. "He thought it was hilarious. 'Kids being kids,' he said."

The color drained from her face, leaving it a blank, porcelain mask.

"He told me everything, you know," I purred, stepping closer to the bed. "About your depression. How you used to slice up your arms for attention. He even said Leo was a… what was the word? A burden. A financial drain."

I saw the flicker in her eyes, the shift from shock to pure, unadulterated rage.

"Oh, and the day your brother died?" I leaned in, my voice a cruel whisper. "Killian was in my bed. We were celebrating the funding for the sanctuary. He didn't even check his messages until the next morning."

Her hand shot out, reaching for the fruit knife on her meal tray. But my next words froze her mid-reach.

"He wants a divorce," I lied, a slow, triumphant smile stretching my lips. "He wants to be with me. A real woman, from a real family."

I expected a fight, tears, a satisfying breakdown.

Instead, she just nodded, her gaze unnervingly steady. "Fine. I'll sign."

That infuriated me. She was supposed to *fight* for him. Her easy surrender felt like an insult. I wanted to see her grovel.

In a fit of rage, I shoved her. Hard.

She tumbled from the bed, her body hitting the floor with a dull, sickening thud. Her head cracked against the metal leg of the nightstand. I heard a small, sharp snap as her hand twisted beneath her.

Perfect.

I ground my stiletto heel into her injured hand, right over the old scar, enjoying the small whimper of pain she couldn't suppress.

The door opened. Killian.

I instantly recoiled, my face transforming into a mask of pure terror.

"She attacked me!" I shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the knife on the floor. "She tried to stab me!"

Just then, Elena’s phone, lying on the bedspread, rang. The screen lit up. The caller ID read: MARK - COUNTY CLERK.

"Ma'am?" a man's voice said from the speakerphone. "This is Mark from the County Clerk's office. I'm calling to follow up on your inquiry. I’ve reviewed the documents."

There was a brief pause.

"There is no record of a marriage license ever being filed for an Elena Ramos and a Killian Emerson. According to the state, you were never legally married."