Seraphina POV:

I spent the next two weeks in the hospital. Dante never came.

Not once.

He sent flowers. Lilies, stark white and funereal, that filled the room with a cloying scent I couldn't stomach. He sent gifts through an associate-cashmere blankets, expensive chocolates, books I'd never read. I donated every single one.

They were gestures of duty, not affection. Payments on an inconvenient debt.

I didn't need his gifts. I had my phone.

Isabella's Instagram was a curated masterpiece of my husband's devotion. A photo of their hands intertwined on a sun-drenched beach, his thumb stroking her knuckles. A video of him cooking for her in a rustic seaside cottage-the one he'd once promised me. A selfie of them wrapped in a blanket by a fire pit, her caption a sickeningly sweet ode to "true love" and "healing with my soulmate."

I felt nothing. The pain had been so sharp, for so long, that it had finally carved out a piece of me, leaving a clean, numb void. I looked at the images of the man I married doting on another woman, and it was like watching a movie about strangers.

When I was discharged, I went home to the echoing silence of the mansion. I was sitting on the terrace, a cool breeze on my face, when I heard voices from the garden below. Marco, Dante's most trusted Capo, and another of his men.

"He bankrupted her ex-husband," the man said, his voice a low grumble. "Used the Family's lawyers to run a personal vendetta. The Don is not happy."

Marco sighed, a heavy, weary sound. "He's always been obsessed. Since they were kids."

"I know, but last night was different," the man countered. I leaned forward, my breath catching in my throat. "He was drunk, out of his mind. Kept calling out a name. Not Isabella's."

My heart gave a foolish, painful lurch.

"He was calling for Seraphina."

I found him passed out on the sofa in his study, the room reeking of expensive whiskey. Empty bottles littered the floor around him like fallen soldiers. His tie was loose, his hair a mess. He looked... broken.

A traitorous part of me, a part I thought was long dead, wanted to cover him with a blanket.

He murmured something in his sleep, his brow furrowed in pain. I leaned closer, straining to hear.

"Isabella," he whispered, the name a ghost on his lips. "I'm sorry... sorry for five wasted years."

The man's words had been a lie. Or a mistake. It didn't matter.

"She's the perfect wife," the man's voice echoed in my memory. "The perfect Regina. Why can't he see what's right in front of him?"

Dante shifted, his lips moving again, a final, slurred judgment from the depths of his subconscious.

"She's not the one."

The words didn't feel like a stab. They felt like a key turning in a lock. I hadn't just been a wife; I had been a placeholder. I had wasted three years of my life trying to earn the heart of a man who saw me as nothing more.

A wave of profound relief washed over me, so pure and absolute it made me dizzy. The cruel, undeniable truth had finally, completely, set me free.

Seraphina POV:

I spent the night in the garden, curled up on a stone bench, watching the moon trace its silver path across the sky.

When dawn broke, painting the horizon in shades of grey and pale rose, I made my way back inside. Dante was still on the sofa, still murmuring Isabella's name in his sleep.

I felt no love. No hate. Just a profound, chilling calm.

I took out my ledger and wrote the final deductions. My hand didn't even shake.

Then I started to pack.

I was methodical. I cleared my side of the closet, leaving a vast, empty space. I boxed up every piece of jewelry, every dress, every pair of shoes he had ever given me. They weren't mine. They were part of the uniform-the uniform of Seraphina Rossi.

Dante woke around noon, his eyes bloodshot. He saw me taping up a box and frowned. "Are you cleaning?"

His phone rang before I could answer. Isabella. His expression softened, the hard lines of the Underboss melting away. "I'm on my way," he promised into the phone, his voice a low, intimate murmur. He grabbed his keys and rushed out, the front door slamming shut behind him.

I whispered to the empty room, "No, you won't."

He was gone for days. Isabella's social media painted a sickeningly perfect picture. He took her to a vineyard in Napa. He bought her a golden retriever puppy. He flew her to Paris for the weekend.

I used the time. I arranged for movers to ship my boxes to a storage unit in San Francisco. I closed my bank accounts. I called Bridget and told her Phoenix Architecture was a go. I methodically erased every trace of Seraphina Rossi from that house.

On the third anniversary of my mother's death, as I was preparing to walk out the door for the last time, he came back. He looked tired but strangely peaceful.

"I'll drive you," he offered, seeing the single bouquet of white roses in my hand.

At the cemetery, I knelt by the cool marble of her headstone. I told her everything, my voice a hushed confession. About the divorce. About the new firm in San Francisco. About my new life.

As we were leaving, the sky opened up. Rain fell in thick, heavy sheets. In the car, the silence was broken by the frantic ringing of Dante's phone.

Isabella.

"I was in an accident," she sobbed through the speaker. "My car... it spun out. I think my wrist is broken."

Dante's face went pale. He slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt on the side of the desolate road. He turned to me, his eyes a cold, hard void, utterly devoid of any emotion for me.

"Get out," he ordered, his voice flat. "I have to get to her."

I didn't argue. I didn't say a word. I simply opened the car door and stepped out into the pouring rain.

I watched his taillights bleed into the rain-slicked darkness, leaving me utterly alone, drenched, on the side of a highway with no one for miles.

My phone was dead. No taxis would come out this far. I started walking, the cold rain seeping into my bones.

I heard the screech of tires before I saw the headlights. A truck, losing control on the slick asphalt, hydroplaning directly towards me.

There was no time to scream.

Seraphina POV:

I woke to a world of blinding white and a pain so sharp it seared through me.

A voice was shouting, distant. "Massive internal bleeding! Get her to an OR, now!"

I was on a gurney, being rushed down a hallway. The ceiling lights blurred into a single, painful streak.

"Hang on, ma'am," a kind voice said near my ear. "We're going to take care of you."

A different voice, more distant, barked out orders. "Page Dr. Evans. And check her vitals again. She's eight weeks pregnant."

Pregnant.

The word sliced through the fog of my pain. A tiny, impossible flicker of joy ignited in the center of my terror. A baby. Our baby.

"Blood pressure is dropping! We need O-negative, now!" a nurse yelled.

"The bank is nearly empty!" another replied, her voice tight with panic. "Dr. Santos just used the last six units for a VIP patient in plastics."

Dr. Santos. The name snagged on something in my mind. Dante.

The nurse with the kind voice was on the phone. "Dante, it's Chloe. I've got a Jane Doe here, a car crash victim, and she's critical. She's pregnant. We're losing them both. I need you to authorize a diversion from the private reserve. It's the only way."

I could hear his voice, tinny and impatient over the speakerphone. "I can't. Those reserves are for Isabella. She might have post-op complications."

"Dante, she's stable! This woman, and your... this baby will die!" Chloe pleaded.

"Isabella is my priority," he said, his voice a blade of ice. "Do not contact me on this line again."

The line went dead.

I understood. For a potential minor complication for Isabella, Dante had just signed my death warrant. And our child's.

A faint, fluttering sensation deep inside me, like a tiny bird's wing brushing against my soul. A hello and a goodbye, all in one.

Then, darkness.

I woke up. The searing agony had faded to a dull, heavy ache. The surgery was over. Chloe, the kind nurse, was sitting by my bed.

"You're stable," she said softly, her eyes full of a pity I couldn't bear. "The surgery was a success."

She took a breath. "I'm so sorry. The baby... the baby didn't make it."

The words hung in the sterile air. I felt them, but they didn't land. I was already hollow.

"Isabella?" I asked, my voice a dry rasp. "Is she safe?"

Chloe's face tightened. "Her... minor cosmetic procedure was a success, yes. Dr. Santos ensured she had the very best of everything."

A bitter smile touched my lips. Of course he did.

I reached for the nightstand. For my purse. For the black leather ledger inside. With a hand that felt disconnected from my own body, I wrote the final entry.

-5 points: He let our child die to save her.

The score was zero.

Every bond, every memory, every last, foolish hope I had for Dante Santos was severed. It was all gone.

That night, I signed my own discharge papers against medical advice. I went back to the empty house.

On his pillow, where his head would lie, I left two things.

The signed divorce agreement.

And the black ledger, opened to the very last page.

I picked up the one small suitcase I had already packed, walked through the silent, cavernous rooms one last time, and pulled the front door shut behind me.

I didn't look back.