I read the words again, letting them really sink in. I wish for Sophia to be safe. Not happy. Not to be with him. Just safe. Even at eighteen, he knew he couldn't have her. He knew she was out of reach. But he yearned for her anyway.

And I had yearned for him.

How pathetic was that?

I picked up my piece of paper-my bloody oath, my bygone promise-and tore it to shreds.

Then I walked over to the drainage grate near the fountain.

The water rushing below was dark and swift, carrying the night's rain down into the sewers. I let the fragments fall, watching them drift down like dead leaves. They hit the water and scattered; some floated, while others sank immediately.

I watched until the very last scrap vanished into the darkness.

Swept down the sewer, exactly where they belonged.

Then I picked up the locket.

He gave it to me the night his sight was restored. I still remembered that night clearly-the way he looked at me, really looked at me, for the very first time.

His gaze had focused on my face; he was seeing me, not just hearing my voice. And he had smiled.

"This is for you," he had said, pressing the locket into my palm. "It was my grandmother's. She always said wearing it brought good luck. I want you to have it."

For years, I had worn it every single day.

I had slept with it under my pillow. I had kissed it for luck before his surgery. On the nights he didn't come home, I clutched it tightly, believing it would keep him safe.

I popped it open-for the first time in years.

Inside was a tiny photograph-so small I had almost forgotten it was there. It was a picture of us taken before the accident, before he lost his sight.

We were just teenagers, sitting right under this very tree. He was laughing at something I was saying. I was looking at him like he hung the moon.

I snapped the locket shut.

I went back to the tree and dug a new hole, deeper this time.

I dropped the silver chain into the muck.

It landed with a soft thud and disappeared into the shadows. I shoved the dirt back in and packed it down with my hands. I patted the earth flat until the ground looked completely undisturbed.

I wasn't just burying a necklace.

I was burying Elena Rossi.

The girl who believed in wishes. The girl who wrote oaths in blood. The girl who thought love could fix a broken man.

She was dead.

I had killed her.

I stood up and brushed the dirt from my knees. My hands were caked in mud and blood, my arm ached dully, and my cheek stung with a fiery heat. I looked like I had just crawled out of a grave.

Maybe I had.

My phone vibrated.

I pulled it out. The screen was cracked-I couldn't remember dropping it, but there it was, a spiderweb of shattered glass webbing out from the corner.

Dante: Are you okay? Luca said you refused the ride.

I stared at the screen.

Three hours. It took him three hours to check on me. It had been three hours since I walked away from him, out of that alley.

Three hours of him driving Sophia around with his hand on her thigh, while I was bleeding, digging, and burying.

I typed a reply.

Me: I'm fine. I don't need you.

I hit send before I had the chance to hesitate.

Then I turned and walked out of the garden, leaving my heart to rot beneath the peach tree.

I had returned for one reason only: my passport.

It was locked in the safe at the Estate, tucked away in the small, modest room I used to occupy near the kitchen.

I had assumed the house would be empty at this hour.

I was wrong.

I slipped through the side entrance, shaking the heavy rain from my coat, shivering as the damp cold clung to my skin.

Laughter drifted down the hallway, light and carefree.

It was coming from the music room.

I should have turned around right then.

But my feet moved on their own, drawn by a force I couldn't resist.

I walked to the open double doors and froze.

Dante sat at the grand piano, his posture rigid yet elegant.

He was playing *Liebestraum*. A dream of love.

It was the song he had written when he was blind, composed in the darkness that had once consumed him.

He used to play it for me at 3:00 AM, in the quiet hours when the pain in his eyes became unbearable.

He had told me, once, that the melody was the very sound of my voice.

Now, he was playing it for her.

Sofia sat on the bench beside him, too close.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, her fingers trailing playfully over the keys, pretending to play along in a mockery of intimacy.

She looked up, her gaze landing on me standing in the doorway.

Her eyes lit up with pure malice.

"Oh, look, Dante," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "The help is back."

Dante's hands faltered on the keys.

The music died abruptly.

He turned.

His eyes found mine across the room.

"Elena," he said, his voice low and guarded. "What are you doing here?"

"Getting my things," I replied.

My voice sounded hollow, like wind whistling through an abandoned house.

"Don't be rude, Dante," Sofia scolded lightly, placing a possessive hand on his chest. "Play the rest. I love this song. You wrote it for me, didn't you?"

Dante looked at me.

He knew.

He knew that I knew.

But he didn't correct her.

"Yeah," he said, his dark eyes never leaving mine, cold and unyielding. "I wrote it for you, Sofia."

Something inside me snapped.

A final, vital cord severed.

Sofia smiled, victorious.

She leaned in.

She pressed her lips to his.

It wasn't a quick peck; it was a claim of ownership.

Dante didn't push her away.

He didn't pull back.

He simply closed his eyes and let her kiss him.

I stood there and watched them.

I watched the man I had bathed, the man I had fed, the man I had saved from the brink of despair, kiss the woman who had left him to rot.

I didn't scream.

I simply turned around.

I walked out the front door.

It was pouring now, the rain transforming into a thunderstorm.

I didn't run for cover.

I walked straight into the deluge.

The water mixed with the tears on my face, making them indistinguishable.

I was free.

I had nothing left to lose, because he had just taken the last thing I truly owned.

My memories.

Elena Rossi POV:

I moved with frantic, silent efficiency.

I wasn't packing clothes. Just the essentials.

My birth certificate. The bank transfer codes Donna Isabella had provided. My passport.

I slipped them into the hidden lining of my purse.

Suddenly, the electronic lock on the front door chimed.

Dante.

He wasn't supposed to be back until morning.

Panic flared in my chest. I threw a blanket over the suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed just as the handle turned.

He walked in.

He smelled like rain and the cloying sweetness of her perfume.

He looked shattered.

He loosened his tie, tossing his jacket on the chair with a heavy sigh.

"Packing?" he asked, his eyes flicking to the lump under the blanket.

"Cleaning," I lied, forcing my voice to remain steady. "Organizing for the charity drive."

He watched me.

The air in the room shifted. He sensed something. He always did. His instincts were sharp, honed like a blade. He was a predator.

He walked over and stood between my knees.

He reached out, his thumb grazing the bandage on my cheek.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"I heard you were at the Estate," he murmured.

"I went to get my old books."

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair.

"About Sofia..." he started.

"Don't," I cut him off softly.

I stood up, needing to put distance between us.

I walked to the dresser and picked up the Black Card he had left there weeks ago.

"Is this still valid?" I asked, holding it up.

He frowned. "Yes. Why?"

"I want to buy a dress," I said, meeting his gaze. "For the gala next week. If you'll still let me go."

His eyes softened, flooded with relief.

He thought I was bargaining. He thought I was accepting my position as the mistress who gets paid off in couture.

"Of course," he said, his voice rough. "Buy whatever you want. Wear red."

He leaned down and kissed my forehead.

I didn't pull away.

I stood as still as a statue, letting him believe I was his.

"Go to sleep, Dante," I whispered. "You look exhausted."

He nodded.

He stripped down to his boxers and climbed into the massive bed.

He fell asleep instantly, the exhaustion finally claiming him.

I stood in the dark, watching him.

I memorized the rise and fall of his chest. The scar on his shoulder from the bullet meant for his father.

I reached out.

I brushed my fingers against his cheek one last time.

"Goodbye, my love," I breathed into the silence.

He stirred.

He turned his head into my hand, seeking warmth.

"Sofia..." he mumbled in his sleep, the name a dagger to my heart. "Stay..."

I snatched my hand back as if I had touched fire.

A bitter smile twisted my lips.

That was the closure I needed.

I grabbed my purse.

I walked out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the elevator.

I took the service exit to the street.

I popped the SIM card out of my phone and flicked it into a sewer grate on 5th Avenue.

I hailed a cab.

"JFK International," I told the driver.

I watched the city blur past the window.

New York was a cage of steel and glass.

And for the first time in seven years, the door was open.

I dialed Donna Isabella from a burner phone I had purchased at a bodega.

"It's done," I said the moment she answered. "I'm gone."

"Good girl," she replied, her voice cool and approving. "Don't look back."

I hung up and snapped the phone in half.

I wasn't looking back.

I was looking at the departure board.

Melbourne. One way.