Ellie POV

The fluorescent strips overhead glared down, humming with a sterile, aggressive electricity that drove spikes through my skull.

I lay on the gurney, my shirt cut open. The burns across my stomach were angry red welts, glistening with thick, cooling salve.

"The fetus seems unaffected," the nurse murmured to the doctor, her voice a professional hush. She glanced at my flat stomach.

My eyes snapped open.

"What?" The word scraped out of my throat.

The nurse looked startled. "Oh, honey. You didn't know? Your HCG levels are elevated. You're very early along, maybe four weeks."

Gravity seemed to vanish. Pregnant. I was pregnant.

David was holding my hand. His grip tightened until his knuckles turned white. His eyes filled with tears. "Ellie..."

"Is it safe?" I asked, panic rising like bile. "The burn... the stress..."

"It's early," the doctor said. "But the trauma... there's spotting. We need to monitor you. It's a threatened miscarriage."

*Threatened.* Like everything else in my life.

"Don't tell him," I whispered.

"Who?" David asked.

"Marcus," I said. "If he comes... don't tell him about the baby. He can't know."

If Marcus knew I was carrying David's child—a child created in freedom—he would destroy it. Or claim it. Or use it.

"He won't know," David promised, his voice fierce. "I won't let him near you."

But Marcus was a Don. Locks didn't stop him; they only delayed him.

Ten minutes later, the curtain whipped back.

Marcus stood there. He was out of breath, his tie crooked.

"Ellie," he breathed. He looked at the bandages. "I came as soon as I dropped Chloe off. Is it bad?"

"It's second-degree burns," David said, positioning himself like a shield between the bed and Marcus. "Not that you care."

Marcus flinched. "I care. It was... chaotic. I didn't realize."

"You chose your phone," I said. My voice was weak, but steady. "You saved your phone because her face was on it."

Marcus stepped closer, ignoring David. He reached for my hand.

"I'm sorry, Ellie. I'll pay for the best plastic surgeons. There won't be a scar."

He tried to take my hand. His ring, a heavy gold signet, scraped against my fingernail. It tore the skin. A tiny drop of blood welled up.

Even his apologies drew blood.

"Go away, Marcus," I said.

"I'm not leaving you here," he said, pulling a chair up. "I'm your guardian."

"You're nothing," David snapped.

Just then, Marcus's phone buzzed. He looked at it. His brow furrowed, then instantly relaxed. A smile—a genuine, boyish smile—touched his lips.

"She's okay," he whispered. "She stopped crying."

He looked at me, his eyes shining. "Chloe forgives me for leaving her. She's so understanding."

I stared at him. I was lying in a hospital bed, skin burned off, terrified of losing my baby, and he was relieved his fiancée stopped crying about a nail.

The absurdity of it choked me.

"Marcus," I said. "Did you hear what the doctor said?"

He looked blank. "What? About the ointment?"

He hadn't even asked the doctor for an update. He had walked in, offered money, and checked his texts.

"Nothing," I said, exhaustion settling deep in my bones. "Just... go home to her. I'm tired."

"Are you sure?" He stood up, almost eager. "I can come back tomorrow."

"Don't bother," I said. "I'm leaving."

"Leaving the hospital?"

"Leaving everything."

He laughed, patting my leg condescendingly. "You're so dramatic, El. Get some rest. I'll see you at the wedding. I'll walk you down the aisle, remember?"

He turned and walked out. He whistled as he went down the hall.

I waited until his footsteps faded.

"David," I said. "Get the lawyer on the phone."

"Now?"

"Right now."

I sat up, gritting my teeth against the screaming protest of my burned skin.

"Draft a letter," I told David. "Total severance. I am returning the trust fund. I am renouncing the Thorne name. I am no longer his ward, his family, or his problem."

"And the baby?" David asked, his hand resting gently on my shoulder.

"The baby is ours," I said. "Only ours."

I looked out the window at the dark Arizona sky.

"Get the plane ready, David. We leave tonight. Even if I have to be carried on a stretcher."

"Where are we going?"

"Home," I said, the word tasting like salvation. "Florence."

I closed my eyes.

*Goodbye, Marcus. You didn't just lose a ward today. You lost the only person who would have died for you.*

*And you didn't even notice.*

Marcus POV

The silence in the manor wasn’t just peaceful. It was the heavy, suffocating quiet of a tomb after the stone has been rolled shut.

Ellie had been gone for three days.

I sat in my study, a tumbler of scotch sweating onto the mahogany desk. Across from me, a wedding planner was droning on about floral arrangements—peonies versus hydrangeas, silk versus velvet ribbons. Chloe sat beside me, her hand resting possessively on my forearm, nodding enthusiastically at samples of cream-colored cardstock.

"Marcus, darling, what do you think about the hydrangeas?" Chloe asked, squeezing my arm. Her nails were perfectly manicured, painted a shade of pink that reminded me of bubblegum and tasted just as artificial.

"Whatever you want," I said. My voice sounded distant, even to my own ears.

I looked at the empty chair in the corner of the room. That was where Ellie used to sit when I worked late. She would curl up with a book, silent as a shadow, just keeping me company.

Now, the chair was empty. The air felt thin, lacking oxygen.

"The Don seems distracted," my Consigliere, Luca, murmured from the doorway. He hadn't stepped fully into the room. He stood in the hall, watching me with eyes that saw too much.

"I'm fine," I snapped. I pulled my arm away from Chloe to pick up my drink.

Chloe pouted. "You've been grumpy ever since Ellie threw that tantrum and left. Honestly, Marcus, she’s just looking for attention. She’ll be back once she realizes the real world doesn't care about her little artistic temperament."

"She returned the money," I said. The words tasted like bile.

"A dramatic gesture," Chloe scoffed. "She probably kept a stash. Or that boyfriend of hers is funding her."

I stood up abruptly. The chair scraped violently against the floor, silencing the wedding planner mid-sentence.

"I need air," I said.

I walked out, ignoring Chloe’s call of my name. I found myself wandering toward the guest wing. I told myself I was checking security protocols. I told myself I was making sure the staff had cleaned the room properly.

I pushed open the door to Ellie's room.

It was stripped bare. The bed was made with military precision. The closet doors were open, revealing empty hangers that looked like ribcages stripped of their flesh.

Maria was in the corner, dusting a shelf that was already clean. She didn't turn around when I entered.

"Maria," I said.

"Don Thorne," she replied. She didn't curtsy. She didn't smile. Her voice was flat, devoid of the warmth she had shown me since I was a boy.

"Did she leave anything?" I asked. I didn't know why I was asking.

"Only the memories you ruined," Maria said, scrubbing a spot on the wood that didn't exist.

I stiffened. "Watch your tone."

"I am an old woman," she said, finally turning to face me. Her eyes were wet. "I watched you bring that girl into this house. I watched her look at you like you hung the moon. And I watched you let her walk out with burns on her skin while you comforted a woman who cried over a broken nail."

"It was an accident," I said, my jaw tightening.

"Was it?" Maria reached into her apron pocket. "She left this in the trash. I thought... I don't know why I kept it. Maybe so you could see what you threw away."

She placed a sketchbook on the vanity. It was battered, the corners soft from use.

I waited until Maria left the room before I touched it. My fingers brushed the cover. I opened it.

The first page was a sketch of the garden. The lines were tentative, childish.

The next few pages showed the manor from different angles.

Then, the subject changed.

Me.

There were hundreds of them. Me reading in the library. Me on the phone, brow furrowed. Me laughing at something—I didn't even remember laughing like that.

In every drawing, I looked... heroic. Strong. Safe.

The charcoal lines were filled with a reverence I didn't deserve.

I flipped to the end. The style had matured, the lines sharper, darker.

The last drawing was dated four years ago. The day she left for Florence.

It was a sketch of my back, walking away from her. The shading was heavy, oppressive. At the bottom, in tiny, faint script, she had written: *The only god I ever prayed to turned out to be made of stone.*

I slammed the book shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Dust motes danced in the air.

"Luca," I barked into the empty hallway.

He appeared instantly, as if he had been waiting.

"Get the jet ready," I said. "We're going to Florence."

"To bring her back?" Luca asked.

"To see if she's really gone," I said, my voice rough.

But as I looked at the empty room, a cold knot formed in my stomach. I had a feeling the Ellie who drew these pictures didn't exist anymore.