I didn't make it to the front door.

"Catarina."

Don Donato's voice stopped me cold in the foyer.

He was standing by the door to his study, a sentinel in the shadows.

"Inside."

I obeyed, walking into the room that smelled of parchment, stale tobacco, and old secrets. The Don moved behind his desk, his movements heavy.

He didn't look like a monster tonight. He looked like a tired old man, methodically cleaning up a mess.

Opening a drawer, he pulled out a thick stack of papers and slid them across the mahogany surface.

"Sign here," he commanded.

I looked down at the documents. The bold headings stared back at me: Separation Agreement. Asset Transfer. New Identity Protocol.

"You knew," I whispered.

"I knew my son is a fool," Donato replied, his voice devoid of emotion. He sat down heavily, the leather chair creaking under his weight.

"He is distracted. A leader cannot be distracted by a mistress. It is a fatal flaw."

He looked at me with cold, pragmatic eyes, assessing me one last time.

"You were a good wife, Catarina. You played your part. But the play is over."

He pushed a fountain pen toward me.

"Sign. Take the money. Take the new name. Disappear. If you come back, I cannot protect you."

I picked up the pen. To my surprise, my hand didn't shake.

I signed my name.

Catarina DeLuca.

The ink was black and permanent, glistening on the page. It was the last time I would ever write those letters.

Suddenly, the door burst open behind me.

Alex stormed in, bringing a chaotic energy into the quiet room. His hair was disheveled, his tie crooked-a portrait of a man unraveling.

"Is she okay?" Donato asked immediately.

"Just heat exhaustion," Alex said, breathless. He turned his wild eyes toward me, his expression hardening.

"What was that stunt in there, Catarina? Separating? Are you trying to humiliate me?"

"Just sign the papers, Alex," Donato cut in, his voice calm and authoritative. "We need to secure the assets before the twins are born. It is just territory management."

Alex didn't read them.

He was too arrogant. He was too used to being the center of the universe to suspect he was being maneuvered.

He thought I was just acting out. He assumed his father was handling the boring business details.

He grabbed the pen from my hand.

With an impatient huff, he scrawled his signature next to mine.

"There," he snapped, tossing the pen down. "Are you happy? Now stop this nonsense and go check on Aria. She needs water."

I stared at the wet ink of his signature.

He had just signed our divorce.

He had just signed away his marriage for a glass of water.

I stood up, the chair scraping against the floor.

"I have a headache, Alex," I said softly. "I'm going home."

He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "Fine. I'll drive you."

"Daddy?"

Aria appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She looked frail and pathetic, clutching her stomach.

"I feel sick again."

Alex looked at me. Then he looked at her.

"Take the driver, Cat," he said, turning his back on me.

He walked over to Aria, wrapping his arm protectively around her waist.

"I have to stay. For the heirs."

He waved his hand at me over his shoulder, dismissing me.

Like I was a servant.

I turned and walked out of the study.

I walked out of the mansion, leaving the suffocating weight of the DeLuca name behind me.

The night air hit my face.

It was cold. It was crisp.

It tasted like oxygen.

It tasted like freedom.

The penthouse was quiet-the heavy, suffocating silence of a tomb before a resurrection.

I packed a single bag.

Just the essentials:

Cash.

Passport.

And the diamond necklace I had stolen back from my own life.

The electronic beep of the front door shattered the stillness.

Alex walked in, humming a low, cheerful tune.

He was laden with shopping bags-pastel blue, pastel pink, unmistakable branding from exclusive baby boutiques.

He dumped them onto the sofa with a careless flourish.

"Cat?" he called out.

I walked out of the kitchen.

I was dressed in jeans and a black sweater, looking every bit like Kate Jensen.

Alex didn't notice the clothes, nor the grim determination in my posture.

He was drunk on the adrenaline of his own perceived virility.

"I was thinking," he said, pacing the room with manic energy.

"We can make this work. You can be the mother figure."

He gestured vaguely.

"Aria... she's not like us. She doesn't know how to raise DeLucas. You can teach them."

He looked at me with a twisted, earnest hope.

"You can be the mother you always wanted to be."

My stomach churned violently.

He wanted me to raise his mistress's bastards.

He wanted to stitch our lives together into some twisted Frankenstein's monster.

"Where is she staying?" I asked, keeping my voice even.

Alex waved his hand dismissively.

"I'm sending her to Como tomorrow. Just for the pregnancy. Once they are born, she's gone. I promise."

My gaze drifted to the tablet he had carelessly left on the kitchen island.

It was unlocked.

A notification blinked on the screen.

New Email: Capo Giovanni.

Subject: Background Check - Subject A.D.

I walked over to it.

Alex was too busy taking a tiny pair of shoes out of a box to notice.

I tapped the screen.

The email opened, revealing a PDF attachment.

I scrolled.

Subject: Aria Diaz.

Medical History: Hysterectomy, 2019.

Financial Status: $400,000 debt to Albanian loan sharks.

Current Status: Not Pregnant.

I stopped breathing for a second.

She wasn't pregnant.

The ultrasounds were fakes.

The fainting was acting.

She was nothing more than a con artist.

I scrolled down to the intercepted texts between Alex and his lawyer.

Alex: Draft the settlement. Once the babies are here, we keep Aria in Como. Tell Catarina the surrogate miscarried. I want both.

The world tilted on its axis.

He wasn't going to exile her.

He was going to keep her.

He was planning to tell me the babies had died just so he could keep his mistress alongside his wife.

He was going to let me grieve for children that never even existed.

The cruelty was breathtaking.

It was absolute.

I closed the tablet.

The last thread of emotional attachment snapped.

It didn't hurt.

It just vanished, leaving a cold void.

"Alex," I said.

He looked up, distracted.

"Yeah?"

"I'm hungry. Will you cook that steak? The wagyu?"

He smiled.

A relieved, arrogant smile.

He thought I was staying.

He thought he had won.

"Of course, babe."

He walked into the kitchen, taking the expensive meat out of the fridge.

He started searing it in the pan.

The smell of rosemary and garlic filled the air.

It used to be my favorite smell.

Now, it smelled like rot.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

A text from Aria.

Emergency. Bleeding. Come now.

Alex went pale.

He abruptly turned off the stove.

"I have to go," he said, his voice tight.

"Business."

He grabbed his keys.

He didn't even look at me.

He ran out the door, leaving the steak sizzling in the pan.

Half-cooked.

Bloody.

I walked to the stove and turned off the gas.

I picked up the pan.

I dumped the hundred-dollar steaks into the trash.

I grabbed my bag.

I walked to the elevator.

I didn't look back.

The private hangar at JFK acted like a wind tunnel.

The air stung with the sharp scent of jet fuel and burnt rubber.

I stood in the shadows of the terminal building, hugging my coat tight against the chill.

My jet was waiting.

It was a small Gulfstream, fully paid for by the settlement.

But there was another jet on the tarmac.

The DeLuca jet.

Alex was standing at the bottom of the stairs, barking into his phone.

"Get the best doctors to Como! Now!"

He was flying to Italy.

He was flying to meet the fabricated emergency of his fake pregnant mistress.

Suddenly, he turned.

He saw me.

For a second, suspicion flashed in his dark eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he shouted over the roar of the engines.

He walked toward me.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

If he knew...

If he knew I was leaving forever...

He would drag me back.

He would lock me in the tower.

I forced a smile onto my face.

It was the best performance of my life.

"Seeing off Cousin Sofia," I shouted back, keeping my voice steady.

"She's flying back to Rome."

Alex stopped.

He looked at my bag.

It was small.

Unassuming.

He nodded. He bought it.

He was so consumed by his own drama, he couldn't see the truth standing right in front of him.

"I have to go to the West Coast," he yelled, gesturing vaguely.

"Meeting."

Another lie.

We were standing five feet apart, screaming lies at each other.

"Okay," I said.

"Safe flight."

He checked his Rolex.

He stepped forward and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek.

His lips were cold.

"Back soon," he said.

"Love you."

He turned and ran up the stairs to his jet.

The door sealed shut.

I watched his plane taxi down the runway.

I watched it lift off into the grey sky.

He was chasing a ghost.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

The screen lit up with a message.

Consigliere: Transfer complete. ID active. Have a good life, Ms. Jensen.

I looked at the phone.

I looked at the contact name: Alexander.

I didn't just delete the contact.

That wasn't enough.

I popped the SIM card out of the side.

I snapped the plastic in half.

I walked to a trash can near the terminal entrance.

I threw the phone in.

Without looking back, I walked across the tarmac to my jet.

I climbed the stairs.

The flight attendant smiled at me.

"Welcome aboard, Ms. Jensen."

I sat in the leather seat.

I buckled the belt.

The engines roared to life.

We accelerated.

Faster.

Faster.

The wheels left the ground.

I looked out the window at the shrinking city of New York.

It was a cage of steel and glass.

And I was finally on the outside.