Elena POV

The scent of peaches was so strong it made my mouth water, heavy and sweet in the air.

I was back in the orchard on the Vitiello estate.

The sun was high and hot, baking the earth, releasing the heady perfume of ripe fruit and dry grass.

I was twenty-one.

My white sundress danced around my legs, catching the warm breeze.

Dante was walking toward me between the rows of trees.

Gone was the tailored suit.

Instead, he was dressed in tactical gear, black and heavy, smelling of gun oil and leather.

He had just come from the shooting range.

He looked dangerous.

He looked like a god of war who had stumbled into a garden.

He stopped in front of me, blocking out the sun, casting me in his shadow.

He didn't smile often, but his eyes were warm when they landed on me.

"What are you looking at, Principessa?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in my chest.

He reached out and tapped the tip of my nose with a calloused finger.

A silent, playful gesture.

I laughed, swatting his hand away, but the humor faded quickly.

"I'm looking at my husband," I said. "You're leaving soon."

His face grew serious, the warmth in his eyes dimming slightly.

"Just a dispute in Chicago. I'll be back before the peaches rot."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the silver locket.

It was cool against my palm.

"Take this," I said. "So you remember who is waiting for you."

He took it.

His thumb brushed over the engraving.

E & D.

"I don't need silver to remember you, Elena," he said.

"Take it anyway."

He opened his hand.

In his palm sat a ring.

It was thick, silver, matching the locket's design.

"I had this made," he said. "A matching set. One stays with you. The other goes with me."

He slid the ring onto my finger.

It fit perfectly.

"This is our promise," he whispered, leaning his forehead against mine. "Wherever I am, this brings me back to you. Until death."

"Until death," I repeated.

He kissed me.

It tasted like peaches and gunpowder.

It tasted like eternity.

Elena POV

I jolted awake, gasping for air.

The phantom scent of peaches was gone.

In its place, the room reeked of antiseptic and old dust.

My chest was on fire—a sharp, stabbing pain radiating down my left arm.

I sat up, clutching the sheets, sweat trickling down my back.

It was just a dream.

A cruel, vivid ghost of a memory haunting the edges of my mind.

I swung my legs out of bed and moved to the vanity.

My hands trembled as I pried opened the velvet jewelry box.

The silver ring was there.

I picked it up.

It felt bitingly cold against my skin.

I slid it onto my finger, but my hands had grown so thin from the sickness that it spun loosely.

It didn't fit anymore.

Nothing fit anymore.

A soft rap echoed from the door.

I quickly pulled the ring off and dropped it back into the box.

"Come in," I rasped.

The door opened.

Mia stood silhouetted against the hallway light.

She was wearing a silk robe that belonged to the guest suite.

Her eyes were wide, rimmed with fear.

In her hand, she clutched the silver locket.

"Cousin Elena?" she whispered.

I turned to face her, pulling my own robe tighter around my frail frame.

"It's late, Mia. What's wrong?"

She stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind her.

She held the locket out to me.

Her hand was trembling.

"I opened it," she said. "I know I shouldn't have. But I wanted to see the picture."

My heart hammered against my ribs.

"And?"

"The picture is water damaged," she said. "You can't see the faces. But the engraving on the back... it's still clear."

She looked at me, her eyes filling with tears.

"E & D."

She took a breath that sounded dangerously like a sob.

"The guards... I heard them whispering in the kitchen. They spoke of Arthur... but they called him Dante. They said he was married. They said the Donna was heartbroken."

She took a step closer.

"E is for Elena. Isn't it?"

I didn't answer.

I couldn't.

"It's you," she whispered, the realization settling heavily between us. "You aren't his cousin. You're his wife."

Elena POV

The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating, filling the space where the truth had finally landed.

Mia clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.

Tears spilled over her cheeks.

"Oh my God," she choked out, the words wet and ragged. "Oh my God, I didn't know."

She stared down at the locket in her palm as if the metal were searing her skin.

"Why did you lie?" she asked, her voice cracking under the strain. "Why did you say you were family? Why are you helping us?"

I took a slow step toward her.

She flinched, shrinking back as if she expected me to strike her.

I didn't blame her.

In our world, a scorned wife would have killed the mistress by now.

But I wasn't just a wife anymore.

I was a ghost, haunting a life that no longer belonged to me.

"Don't cry," I said softly, reaching out to brush a stray tear from her cheek. "It's bad for the baby."

Mia grabbed my hand, squeezing it with desperate strength.

"I stole him," she sobbed, her body shaking. "I stole your husband. I'm so sorry. I swear, I didn't know. I'll tell him. I'll tell him tomorrow. I'll give him back."

I pulled my hand away gently.

My chest ached—a dull, constant throb that never really faded.

"You can't give back what is already gone, Mia."

She shook her head frantically.

"No, he's right here. He's down the hall. We can fix this."

I turned away, walking to the window to look out at the shadowed garden.

"The man down the hall is Arthur," I said, my voice hollow. "He likes mild coffee. He smiles at strangers. He is gentle and kind."

I turned back to face her.

"My husband was Dante Moretti. He drank espresso black as tar. He broke bones without blinking. He burned the world for me."

I locked eyes with her, letting the truth hang in the air.

"My husband died three years ago in an explosion. The man you saved is someone else."

"But he has the same body," she argued weakly.

"A body is just a shell," I said. "He doesn't know me, Mia. He looks at me and sees a stranger. If I force him to remember... if I force the violence back into his head... it will destroy the peace he has found with you."

"But you love him," she whispered.

"Yes," I said, the word barely a breath. "That is why I am letting him go."