Elena POV

My phone lit up on the nightstand, casting a harsh glare in the dark.

Drinking with associates. Don't wait up.

I didn't reply. I didn't even unlock the screen.

I wasn't waiting up. I was already asleep. Or at least, trying to be.

The empty side of the bed was cold. It used to feel like a gaping wound, a physical ache in my chest. Tonight, it just felt like space. Just square footage.

I woke up at 6 AM.

I cleaned the penthouse. I made coffee. Black, no sugar.

Just the way I liked it. Just the way he never bothered to remember.

The front door opened at 7.

Dante walked in. He looked rough, the polish of the city's golden boy stripped away by the night. His tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck.

He smelled like stale smoke and yesterday's bourbon.

Regret? No. Just a hangover.

I was taking the trash bag out of the bin when he stopped in the hallway, blinking at me through bloodshot eyes.

"Is your phone broken?" he asked.

His voice was a gravelly growl, rough with exhaustion.

"No," I said.

"You didn't check in," he said, leaning against the wall as if the world were tilting. "I didn't get a single text asking when I'd be home."

"I was sleeping."

He frowned. He didn't like that answer. He preferred me anxious. He liked me pacing the floor, worrying if he was dead in a ditch or in another woman's bed.

He walked past me toward the bedroom, then paused at the console table in the hallway.

He stared at the wall. There was a square of lighter paint on the gray wallpaper where a frame used to hang.

"Where is the photo?" he asked.

The photo of us. Taken five years ago. Before the light went out of my eyes.

"The frame broke," I said. My voice was steady.

"Fix it," he said.

He didn't ask how it broke. He didn't care.

His phone vibrated in his hand. He looked down, and the hard line of his jaw softened. A small smile touched his lips.

He pressed a button and brought the phone to his mouth, turning slightly away from me.

"Sleep well, little one. I'll see you at the office."

He walked into the bedroom, closing the door in my face.

I stood there holding the trash bag. My hands started to shake. Not from emotion. I told myself it wasn't emotion.

It was hunger. My blood sugar was crashing.

I dropped the bag and went to the kitchen. I put a slice of bread in the toaster. My vision was swimming at the edges. I needed sugar. I needed food.

Twenty minutes later, Dante came back out.

He had changed into a fresh suit. He looked impeccable again. The Capo armor was back on, tight and tailored.

He saw me eating the dry toast and scoffed.

"God, Elena," he snapped, adjusting his cufflinks. "I come home starving, and you're stuffing your face? You couldn't wait five minutes to cook for me?"

He snatched the toast from my hand and dropped it into the trash bin.

"We eat when I say we eat," he said. "Make me eggs."

I looked at the trash bin. My breakfast. My fuel.

"I'm going to be late for work," I said.

"You work for me," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You're never late unless I say you are."

He turned his back to fill a glass of water.

I didn't make the eggs.

I picked up my purse and walked out the door.

In the elevator, the silence ringing in my ears, I opened social media. I went to his profile.

He had changed his cover photo. It used to be the skyline of the city he ruled. Now, it was a photo of a coffee cup with lipstick stains on the rim.

Her lipstick.

Caption: Morning essentials.

I didn't cry. I didn't feel anything at all.

I tapped the screen. I liked the photo.

Then I went to my contacts. I found Dante - My Life.

I changed it to Dante Moretti.

I unpinned him from the top.

I watched his name slide down the list, buried under the dry cleaner and the dog walker.

It was a small thing. But it felt like cutting a chain.

Elena POV

The elevator at Moretti Holdings was a glass cage that offered a panoramic view of the city. I refused to look at it. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on the digital display, watching the floor numbers tick upward.

I was on my lunch break, heading toward an appointment with a realtor. A secret appointment.

The doors slid open on the executive floor, and the air instantly grew heavier. Dante stepped in, with Sofia clinging to his side like a decorative accessory. She was giggling, her hand staking a claim on his bicep. When she looked up and saw me, her smile widened.

It was a predator's baring of teeth disguised as a kitten's grin.

"Elena!" she chirped. "Going down?"

"Yes," I said.

Dante looked at me. His dark gaze slid over me, heavy with irritation, as if my mere existence was an interruption to his schedule. He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind Sofia's ear.

"Your hair is messy," he murmured.

"You messed it up," she whispered back, pitching her voice perfectly so I wouldn't miss a word.

"Stop whining," he said, but his tone was playful. He never played with me.

"Join us for lunch," Dante said.

It wasn't an invitation. It was a command.

"I can't," I said. "I have business."

His eyes narrowed into slits. "What business?"

"Personal business."

"You don't have personal business," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Cancel it."

Before I could respond, the elevator shuddered violently. The overhead lights flickered and died, plunging us into a sudden, heavy silence before the emergency red glare bathed the small space.

"Oh god," Sofia gasped. "I can't breathe. It's too tight in here."

She grabbed Dante's lapels. "It's okay," he soothed. "I'm here."

He pulled her into his arms, rubbing circles into her back and whispering reassurances I couldn't distinguish over the pounding of my own heart.

I pressed myself into the corner, fighting the familiar constriction in my chest. I was the one with the diagnosis. I was the one whose lungs actually seized in confined spaces. But I stood stone still.

I turned on my phone flashlight. The harsh beam hit them, cutting through the red gloom.

Dante glared at me.

"Turn that off," he hissed. "You're blinding her."

"The power is out, Dante," I said.

"She has a heart condition," he snapped. "She's fragile."

Fragile.

I was the one who had nearly died last week.

The elevator jolted again, and the doors groaned, prying open a few inches. We were level with the lobby floor, but the gap was barely wide enough to squeeze through.

Veins bulged in Dante's neck as he pried the doors apart with his bare hands. He shoved Sofia through the gap first.

"Go," he told her. "Get to the clinic. Get checked out."

She scrambled out, looking back with wide, fake-terrified eyes. Dante followed her immediately. He stepped out. He started to walk away.

The doors began to slide shut again.

He didn't look back. He didn't reach for a hand that was waiting to be taken. He left me alone in the dark metal box.

Panic surged, cold and sharp. I jammed my foot in the door. The rubber seal pinched my ankle, grinding against the bone, but I forced the doors back with a grunt of effort.

I squeezed out into the lobby.

I watched Dante's retreating back as he rushed Sofia toward the exit. He was carrying her now. Like a bride.

I looked down at my phone. The screen was cracked—a spiderweb of glass from where I had banged it against the wall in my struggle.

Ignoring the throb in my ankle, I walked out the side exit and took a taxi to the apartment viewing.

It was small. It smelled sharply of bleach. It was perfect.

I went back to the office at 5 PM. Dante was sitting at my desk.

He had a small box of pastries. "Cannoli," he said. "From lunch."

The box was open, revealing the ravaged remains. Half-eaten. Leftovers.

"Sofia couldn't finish them," he said. "I thought you'd want them."

He placed the box on my keyboard.

"I need you to print the quarterly reports," he said.

"I can't," I said.

"Why?"

"I'm printing something else."

The printer whirred to life beside us. A single sheet of paper slid into the tray. I picked it up and handed it to him.

"What is this?" he asked.

"My resignation," I said.

He laughed. A short, sharp bark of disbelief. "You can't resign, Elena. You belong to the Family."

"I resign from the legitimate company," I said, my voice steady. "I resign from being your secretary. And I certainly resign from eating her leftovers."

I picked up the pastry box and dropped it into the trash can next to my desk with a final, dull thud.

"You're fired," I whispered to the empty air, the words tasting like freedom as I walked away.

Elena POV

I bad retreated to a diner across town, seeking the anonymity of a corner booth.

I was nursing a burger.

Alone.

My phone rang, shattering the grease-scented quiet.

Dante.

I let it ring.

It rang again. And again. A persistent, demanding trill that refused to be ignored.

A male colleague, Mark from accounting, happened to be walking past my table on his way out.

"Is that your phone?" he asked, pausing with an amused smirk.

I nodded, staring at the screen.

"It's annoying," he laughed, clearly mistaking our work proximity for friendship.

Before I could react, he reached over and snatched it off the table.

"Hello?" Mark said cheerfully, answering for me like it was a joke.

The silence on the other end was heavy, instantly suffocating the air between us.

"Who is this?" Dante's voice was absolute ice.

"Uh, Mark. From accounting," Mark stammered, his smile faltering. "Who is this?"

"Put Elena on the phone. Now. Or I will cut your tongue out."

Mark drained of all color.

He handed me the phone like it was a live grenade, his fingers trembling.

"It's... for you."

I pressed the phone to my ear.

"Where are you?" Dante demanded.

"Eating."

"With a man?"

"He's just a colleague, Dante."

"Send me your location. I'm coming to get you."

"I'm fine, Dante. I don't need—"

"Send it. Now."

The command brooked no argument. I sent the pin.

And then, I waited.

I finished my burger, every bite tasting like ash.

I finished my fries, watching the clock on the wall tick forward.

The diner closed at 11:30. The staff began stacking chairs around me.

He never came.

With a sinking feeling in my gut, I checked Instagram.

Sofia had posted a story just minutes ago.

It was a photo of a hospital wristband.

The caption read: My hero never leaves my side.

The realization hit me harder than the silence.

He wasn't coming.

He was never coming.

I stood up, leaving the empty plate behind, and went home.