Aurora POV:

The sterile scent of the Vance Private Clinic ER filled my lungs. Under the blinding surgical lights, Dr. Harris wore sterile gloves, using medical scissors to carefully cut the fused silk away from my chest.

Every single snip of the blades pulled at the mangled, blistered tissue. I bit down on a rolled-up towel so hard my jaw ached, my cold sweat completely soaking the emergency bed beneath me.

Dr. Harris examined the massive spread of the second-degree burns. He inhaled sharply through his teeth and muttered a curse to God under his breath.

A nurse rushed over and quickly inserted an IV needle into the uninjured vein of my right arm, hooking me up to a strong pain pump.

As the heavy painkillers flowed into my bloodstream, the rigid tension in my muscles finally began to give way to a numb limpness.

The automatic doors of the ER chimed and slid open.

Ethan walked in. He was impeccably dressed, his custom suit lacking even a single wrinkle, looking as if the chaotic nightmare at the restaurant had never occurred.

As he stepped closer, the cloying, sweet stench of Ilene's perfume wafted off his clothes, mixing with the sharp smell of bleach.

It was the nightmare scent that had haunted my marriage, a constant reminder of the third person who was always in the room with us.

Ethan stopped beside my bed. He looked down at my bandaged chest from his towering height, his brows knitting together slightly.

He didn't ask if I was in pain. He didn't ask how I was feeling. He turned his head directly to Dr. Harris and asked if the burns would leave ugly scars.

His tone was entirely business-like and devoid of warmth. He sounded like a collector assessing the damage on a depreciating piece of art.

I closed my eyes, forcing back the pathetic, lingering moisture burning at the corners of my eyes.

Dr. Harris spoke in a strict, grim tone. He stated that without long-term skin graft surgeries, severe scarring was inevitable, making it clear just how catastrophic the damage was.

Ethan tugs irritably at his silk tie. He looked visibly dissatisfied with the answer, clearly annoyed that this situation was adding complications to his life.

He walked to the bedside table. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy set of keys, and dropped them into the metal surgical tray next to my pillow. They landed with a harsh, grating clang.

In a voice that left no room for negotiation, Ethan announced that these were the keys to a high-security penthouse in Tribeca.

He ordered me to move there directly after I was discharged. He told me not to return to the Long Island estate.

I opened my eyes. I stared blankly at the glaring surgical lights above and asked in a hoarse, scraping voice, "Why?"

Ethan answered matter-of-factly. He said Ilene was heavily traumatized by the night's events, and the quiet environment of the Long Island estate was better suited for her recovery.

He added that seeing me would trigger her PTSD, so for everyone's sake, separating us physically was the best option.

I turned my head and looked at the man I had loved for five years. Suddenly, he looked terrifyingly unfamiliar.

I let out a dry sneer. "So the legal wife has to give up her marital home to accommodate a psychopath?"

Ethan's face darkened instantly. He placed both hands firmly on the metal bed rails, leaning over me with the oppressive, suffocating aura of the underground tyrant he truly was.

He was a man who demanded absolute control. He never tolerated anyone challenging his authority.

He warned me to watch my words and not make this situation any uglier than it already was.

I met his gaze without flinching. A cold, absolute fury ignited in my eyes.

I reached over with my uninjured hand and grabbed the heavy set of keys from the metal tray.

Ethan's posture relaxed slightly. A satisfied smirk began to form on his lips, assuming I had finally compromised.

I raised my arm and hurled the heavy keys violently directly at his chest.

The metal struck his expensive suit jacket and clattered onto the sterile floor with a sharp, echoing crash.

I pointed a shaking finger toward the door, spitting out the words with every ounce of strength I had left.

"Take your charity and get out!"

Aurora POV:

Ethan looked down at the keys resting on the sterile floor. His face darkened into a stormy, terrifying mask.

He slowly straightened his posture, his hands methodically smoothing out the wrinkles the keys had left on his suit jacket. When he looked back at me, his eyes were sharp and highly aggressive.

He let out a cold, mocking laugh. He asked me if I still couldn't grasp reality, if I still thought I was the untouchable mafia princess who could dictate the rules.

I reached over with my left hand and violently ripped the IV needle out of my right hand.

Blood instantly gushed from the puncture wound, sliding down my pale knuckles and dripping onto the white sheets.

The nurse let out a panicked gasp and rushed forward to stop the bleeding, but Ethan shot her a glare so murderous it nailed her feet to the floor.

I pressed my thumb hard against the bleeding hole, ignoring the sting, and locked my cold gaze onto Ethan.

I demanded to know why, as my husband, his very first instinct when his wife was doused in boiling soup was to shield the attacker.

A brief, almost imperceptible flash of panic crossed Ethan's eyes. It was immediately swallowed by his self-righteous arrogance.

He couldn't explain his own physical instincts, so he relied on the moral high ground to mask his guilt.

He took a heavy step forward, bringing out the ultimate, exhausted excuse: Ilene's father.

His voice rose in volume, echoing off the clinic walls. He reminded me that if Ilene's father hadn't taken three bullets for him, he would have bled out and died on the Miami docks years ago.

He pointed a finger at me, calling me cold-blooded and ungrateful. He said Ilene was an orphaned, helpless woman suffering from severe depression.

Listening to his tired clichés, I suddenly burst into laughter. The movement violently pulled at the burned flesh on my chest, forcing me to gasp sharply in pain, but I couldn't stop laughing.

I looked at him and enunciated every single word. "Her father saved you, not me. Why should my flesh and my marriage pay your debt?"

The words acted like a serrated knife, slicing cleanly through his hypocritical moral armor.

Ethan was left completely speechless. His chest heaved up and down as he glared at me, clearly struck right in his most vulnerable nerve.

Just as the tension in the room reached a breaking point, the private phone in Ethan's pocket rang with an urgent, shrill tone.

He pulled it out. The name "Ilene" flashed brightly on the screen. He swiped to answer it immediately.

Ilene's weak, crying voice filtered through the receiver. She sobbed that she was all alone in the hospital, terrified, and surrounded by strangers.

Ethan's harsh expression melted instantly. His voice dropped to a gentle, soothing murmur as he promised her he was on his way right now.

He hung up the phone and turned his head back to me. He looked at his severely injured, bleeding wife lying in a hospital bed.

Without a single trace of hesitation in his eyes, he threw down a cold, "Calm yourself down," and turned his back on me, walking straight toward the door.

I watched his retreating back. My voice dropped to freezing temperatures as I called out to him.

Ethan stopped in his tracks, but he didn't turn around.

I told him that the Long Island estate was my legal territory. Unless I was dead, absolutely no one was going to kick me out of my own home.

The territorial instincts of my bloodline were finally waking up.

Ethan let out a dismissive scoff. He found my threat utterly ridiculous. He didn't say another word and strode out of the ER.

The automatic doors slid shut behind him, sealing off the outside world.

I slumped back against the pillows, panting heavily as the last of my adrenaline drained away.

Dr. Harris let out a heavy sigh. He stepped forward with a fresh gauze pad and began to re-treat my bleeding hand.

I stared blankly at the ceiling tiles. The very last shred of attachment I held for this marriage was completely eradicated, replaced by nothing but cold, calculated survival.

I turned to the nurse and asked her to hand me my phone. I dialed a cab company.

"The Long Island estate is my bottom line. Let him go to hell."