Dante found me in the study the next morning.

I was seated in the massive leather armchair that used to swallow me whole, making me feel insignificant.

Today, it was just a chair. Just furniture.

"I heard about Luca," he said.

He didn't sit. He loomed by the door, maintaining a clinical distance.

"It is unfortunate. But it is a lesson in the lifestyle. He was careless."

"Unfortunate," I repeated.

The word tasted like ash on my tongue.

"You scrambled a jet for Sofia because she skipped breakfast," I said, my voice steady. "Yet you let my brother be tortured to death because of a treaty you broke anyway by leaving the Gala."

Dante sighed, a heavy exhale of a parent dealing with a petulant child.

"Sofia is a Legacy Protectee. Her father’s blood bought my life. It is a matter of Honor, Elena. You wouldn't understand."

"Honor," I echoed.

I stood up.

I walked to the mahogany desk and retrieved a file.

"This is Luca's transfer request," I said, tossing it down. "He wanted out. He wanted to go to culinary school. You denied it. You claimed the Family needs soldiers."

"We do," Dante replied, unmoved.

"You have enough soldiers," I said. "You just didn't care enough to save the one that belonged to me."

He looked at me then.

Really looked at me.

Usually, when we argue, I cry. I beg. I ask him to see me.

Today, my eyes were dry as a desert.

"You are being emotional," he dismissed. "I expected better composure from a Vitiello."

"I am not a Vitiello," I stated coldly. "And I am certainly not a Cavallaro."

I brushed past him.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"To take a shower. The scent of your hypocrisy is clinging to me."

I washed the smell of the gala—and him—off my skin.

I scrubbed until my flesh was raw and red.

When I finally descended the stairs, the rich aroma of garlic and tomatoes permeated the house.

Provencal stew.

Dante sat at the head of the table.

Sofia was sitting in my seat.

She was wearing a cashmere sweater that looked suspiciously like the one Dante had 'lost' last year.

"Elena!" she chirped, her voice gratingly bright. "You look terrible. So pale. I made dinner. Dante said you were upset, so I thought I'd help."

She ladled a generous portion of stew into a bowl.

"Eat," she urged. "It's a comfort recipe."

I stared at the bowl.

Green specks floated innocently in the red broth.

Parsley.

I have a severe parsley allergy.

It causes anaphylaxis.

It is noted in my medical file. It is bolded on the emergency contact list magneted to our fridge.

Dante knows this.

Or at least, I told him.

Five years ago. Four years ago. Last month.

"I can't eat this," I said.

"Oh, don't be rude," Sofia countered, her eyes filling with instant, practiced tears. "I spent hours on it. My wrist is still sore from the IV."

Dante looked up from his phone, annoyed.

"Elena," he warned. "Eat a little. Out of respect. Sofia is a guest."

"It has parsley," I said.

"It's just a garnish," Dante snapped. "Stop being difficult. You are embarrassing yourself."

He didn't remember.

He actually didn't remember.

He knew Sofia's favorite flower, her specific coffee order, and the exact date her father died.

But he couldn't remember that his wife could die from a garnish.

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a loud snap.

It was the sound of a tether breaking in the silence of deep space.

I reached out and shoved the tureen.

The heavy ceramic bowl tipped.

Hot, red stew splashed across the table.

It hit Sofia’s hand.

She screamed.

It was a minor splash, but she screamed like she had been shot.

Dante was on his feet in a heartbeat.

"What is wrong with you?" he roared.

He grabbed a napkin and dabbed frantically at Sofia's hand, checking for burns that weren't there.

"She burned me!" Sofia cried, burying her face in his chest. "She did it on purpose!"

Dante turned to me.

His face was twisted with a rage I had never seen directed at his enemies.

"Apologize," he commanded. "Now."

I looked at him.

I looked at the man I had loved since I was twenty-two.

"No," I said.

"Elena," his voice dropped a dangerous octave. "Apologize to Sofia."

"I hope it scars," I said.

I turned on my heel and walked out of the dining room.

I heard Dante comforting her behind me.

"It's okay, *piccola*. She's hysterical. Ignore her."

I went to the guest room.

I locked the door.

I didn't cry.

I just stared at the wall and waited for the end.

The storm slammed into Chicago at midnight, the wind howling against the floor-to-ceiling glass like a dying animal clawing to get in.

I was lying in the guest bed, my eyes fixed on the shadows dancing across the ceiling.

Suddenly, the door handle turned.

It was locked, but that didn't matter; Dante had the key.

When he entered, the scent of rain and expensive scotch flooded the room, choking the air.

"You are sleeping in here?" he asked, his voice low.

"Yes," I said.

He moved to the edge of the bed and sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight.

He placed a heavy hand on my hip.

His touch used to set me on fire. Now, it felt like a brand searing into my flesh.

"You were out of line today," he murmured, his thumb tracing a possessive line along my side. "But I forgive you. I know you are grieving."

"Forgive me?" A laugh clawed its way out of my throat—a dry, rusty sound.

"Come back to our room," he said. "I don't like sleeping alone."

He leaned down, nuzzling the sensitive curve of my neck.

The rough grit of his beard scratched my skin.

I went rigid.

I felt like a corpse he was trying to resuscitate.

"Dante, stop," I said.

"You're my wife," he murmured against my skin. "It's been weeks."

He pinned my wrists to the sheets.

Not violently.

Just firmly.

Possessively.

Then, the siren wailed.

The Red Alert.

It cut through the house, shattering the tension and silencing the storm outside.

Dante froze.

He released me instantly, his demeanor shifting in a heartbeat.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. "Transport plane down," he said, scanning the screen. "North Africa. It's carrying the new shipment."

He stood up, buttoning his shirt with practiced efficiency.

The transition from husband to Don was instant.

"I have to go to the Command Center."

Sofia appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a sheer silk robe.

"Dante," she breathed, feigning breathlessness. "I heard the siren. Is it the shipment? My cousin is a pilot on that route."

"I'm going to check," Dante said.

"I'm coming with you," Sofia said, stepping forward. "I can cover the story. Exclusive access."

"It's dangerous," Dante said.

"I'm not afraid," she said, lifting her chin defiantly.

"Fine," Dante said. "Get dressed. Five minutes."

He looked at me one last time.

"Secure the windows, Elena. The storm is getting worse. The shutters in the east wing are loose."

"I asked you to fix those shutters three months ago," I said, my voice hollow.

"Priorities," he said dismissively.

He left.

He took Sofia.

He left me in a house that was falling apart.

I went to the east wing, where the gale was already battering the glass.

I tried to pull the heavy steel shutter closed, but the latch was fused with rust.

"Low Priority," I whispered to myself.

Outside, the wind gusted to seventy miles per hour.

With a deafening crack, the window blew in.

Glass exploded inward like shrapnel, peppering the room.

The pressure change sucked the air right out of my lungs.

Behind me, the heavy oak bookcase groaned ominously.

I turned.

It tipped.

It fell in slow motion, a towering shadow descending upon me.

I tried to run.

But I wasn't fast enough.

The weight hit me.

*CRACK.*

My right leg.

I felt the bone snap like a dry twig.

I screamed.

The bookcase pinned me to the floor, crushing me under its immense weight.

Dust and debris filled my mouth, choking my cries.

Above me, the satellite tower on the roof crashed through the ceiling.

Rubble rained down, burying me alive.

Pain.

White-hot, blinding pain radiated from my leg.

And then, a different pain.

A sharp, cramping agony in my lower abdomen.

"No," I whispered, tears mixing with the dust on my face. "No, please."

My hand trembled as it went to my stomach.

I was ten weeks pregnant.

I hadn't told him.

I wanted to surprise him for his birthday.

I reached for my phone, but the screen was shattered, the device dead.

Then, I saw a light.

Dante.

He had come back.

He stood in the doorway, his flashlight beam cutting through the swirling dust.

"Elena!" he shouted.

He ran to me.

He started lifting the heavy wood, his muscles straining.

"Hold on," he grunted. "I've got you."

The pressure eased slightly.

I gasped for air.

"Dante," I choked out. "The baby... I..."

Suddenly, his earpiece crackled.

"Boss! We have a situation. Sofia panicked on the tarmac. She scratched her arm on the door handle. She's fainting at the sight of blood. We need you to stabilize the asset before we launch."

Dante froze.

He looked at me.

Trapped under the wood.

Bleeding.

"She scratched her arm?" he asked the earpiece, disbelief warring with calculation.

"She's hyperventilating, Boss. She won't board without you."

Dante looked down at my leg.

"It's just a broken leg," he muttered, his face hardening. "You're a doctor. You know it's not fatal."

"Dante," I whispered, reaching out. "Don't go."

"I have to secure the mission," he said, his voice cold. "Sofia is key to the media narrative. I'll send the guards back for you."

He let go of the bookcase.

The weight slammed back down on me with crushing force.

I screamed.

He flinched, but he turned around.

He ran.

He ran to the girl with the scratch.

He left his wife and his unborn child under the rubble.

I watched his flashlight fade away into the darkness.

I was alone.

Then, I felt warm liquid pooling between my legs.

It wasn't urine.

It was blood.

I dipped my finger in it.

With trembling hands, I pressed my bloody finger against the floorboards.

I traced the numbers of the divorce lawyer I had memorized.

Then, the darkness took me.

I woke up to the sharp sting of antiseptic and old, damp canvas.

A tent.

I was in a field medical tent. Neutral territory.

My leg was in a cast. No, not just a cast.

An external fixator. Cold metal pins pierced my skin, holding the shattered bone together like a gruesome scaffold.

But the pain in my leg was distant.

It was my abdomen that felt wrong.

It felt empty.

Hollow.

A cramping ache that was infinitely worse than the shattered bone.

Dante was sitting on a folding chair beside the cot.

He looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his suit was coated in gray dust.

"You're awake," he said.

"Where am I?" My voice was a dry rasp.

"Field hospital," he said. "The estate is compromised. The storm took out the power grid."

"My leg," I said.

"Tibia and fibula fracture," he recited. "Clean break. You'll limp for a bit, but you'll walk."

He said it like he was reading a weather report. Clinical. Detached.

"And the other thing?" I asked.

He frowned. "What other thing?"

He didn't know.

The doctors hadn't told him.

Or maybe they did, and he didn't listen.

"Why did you leave?" I asked. "Why did you leave me there?"

"The evac window was closing," he said. "Sofia is a critical mission asset. She controls the narrative in the press. If she panicked, the mission failed. It was a strategic choice."

"A scratch," I said. "She had a scratch."

"She has a low pain threshold," he said, his tone shifting to defensive.

"I was crushed," I said. "I was buried."

"You are strong, Elena," he said. "You always have been. Sofia is... fragile."

"I lost the baby," I said.

I didn't mean to say it.

It just fell out of my mouth.

Dante stared at me. The color drained from his face.

"What?"

"I was pregnant," I said. "Ten weeks. I lost it under the bookcase. While you were putting a Band-Aid on Sofia."

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"You... why didn't you tell me?"

"I was going to," I said. "But you were too busy planning a gala."

"Elena, I..." He reached for my hand.

I pulled away.

"Don't," I said. "Don't touch me."

Suddenly, the tent flap flew open and a medic rushed in.

"Mr. Cavallaro! Miss Ricci is asking for you. She says the humidity is making her dizzy."

Dante looked at the medic.

Then he looked back at me.

He looked at the empty space where a baby should have been.

"Tell her to breathe into a bag," Dante said, his voice tight.

"She's threatening to call the press, sir. She says she feels unsafe."

Dante closed his eyes. A muscle feathered in his jaw.

He stood up.

"I'll be right back," he said to me. "I just need to calm her down."

"Go," I said.

"I'll be five minutes," he promised.

"Go," I repeated.

He left.

He walked out of the tent.

I heard voices outside. The hushed, bored tones of international volunteers.

"That's the Ice Prince?" one asked.

"Yeah. Carrying the journalist around like she's made of glass."

"What about the wife? The one with the shattered leg?"

"Political marriage," the other voice said. "She's just the furniture. He's clearly in love with the other one. Repaying a blood debt or something."

"Sad," the first voice said. "She looks like she's made of stone now."

I looked at my hands.

They were shaking.

Not from fear.

From clarity.

My heart didn't break.

It calcified.

It turned into a hard, cold thing that didn't need blood to pump.

I wasn't the Caged Canary anymore.

The cage was destroyed.

And the bird was dead.

What was left was something else.

Something sharp.