Desperate for air, I retreated toward the edge of the boat.

I needed to escape the suffocating stench of their shared madness, the cloying mix of expensive perfume and deceit.

"Where are you going?" Aria called out, her voice cutting through the humid night air. "We haven't cut the cake!"

She didn't just follow me; she pursued me.

Her fingers dug into my arm, spinning me around.

"Don't you dare walk away from this," she hissed, her face inches from mine, her breath smelling of champagne. "I spent days planning this. You will smile. You will thank Bennett. And you will accept that I am the one who pulls the strings."

She flaunted her left hand.

There was a ring on her finger.

A massive, ostentatious diamond.

"He proposed," she whispered, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Technically, we're engaged. Once he figures out how to divorce you without upsetting the Don, you're out. But until then, play nice."

She pulled out her phone.

"Look," she said, swiping to a photo.

It was Bennett and her in Italy.

Smiling.

Happy.

The backdrop was the very villa I had begged him to take me to for our honeymoon.

"He took me there last month," she said, twisting the knife. "He said it was too beautiful to waste on someone who doesn't appreciate art."

Before I could respond, the boat lurched violently beneath our feet.

The engine sputtered and let out a dying cough before silence fell.

The current of the Seine caught the vessel, spinning it sideways like a toy.

A barge was coming down the river, looming out of the darkness.

The captain shouted.

The impact was jarring, bone-rattling.

We were thrown sideways.

I grabbed the railing, my knuckles turning white.

Bennett was across the deck.

He saw us both stumble.

He saw Aria slide across the wet teak wood.

And in that split second, the truth was laid bare.

He didn't hesitate.

He didn't look at me.

He lunged for her, wrapping his body around hers, cushioning her from the impact as they hit the bench.

I was left exposed.

I was thrown into the metal stanchion.

My head cracked against the steel with a sickening thud.

Blackness swallowed me.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital room in Paris.

A soldier was standing by the door.

Not Bennett.

A soldier.

"Mrs. Vitale," he said, straightening up. "You're awake."

"Where is he?" I asked, my voice raspy and dry.

"Mr. Vitale is with Miss Diaz. She... she was shaken up. He took her back to the hotel to rest."

The words hit harder than the steel beam.

"I see."

"He sent me to get your things," the soldier said, shifting awkwardly on his feet. "He says you're causing too much trouble. He wants you to go back to New York. The Don will deal with you."

I sat up, fighting the nausea.

My head throbbed in rhythm with my heart.

"No," I said.

"Mrs. Vitale, please. Don't make this hard."

"I'm not going back."

I reached into my bag on the side table.

I pulled out the velvet box I had carried with me.

The wedding ring.

The earrings he gave me for my birthday.

The brooch that belonged to his grandmother.

I handed the pile of metal and stone to the soldier.

"Give these to him," I said, my hand steady despite the pain.

"Mrs. Vitale..."

"Tell him the debt is paid. Tell the Don I resign."

"You can't resign from the family."

"Watch me."

I stood up.

I was dizzy, but I was determined.

I signed the discharge papers against medical advice, ignoring the nurse's protests.

I walked out of the hospital and into the cold Paris night.

I went to the airport.

I bought a ticket to the furthest place I could find on the departure board that wasn't New York.

Oslo.

As the plane taxied down the runway, I looked out the window at the lights of Paris fading below.

I left my marriage in the Seine.

I left my fear in that hospital room.

I was bruised.

I was alone.

But for the first time in five years, the air in my lungs belonged only to me.

(Bennett POV)

The gala was loud.

Too loud.

Aria was clinging to my arm, her nails digging into my bicep through the fabric of my tuxedo.

She was drunk.

She had been drinking since we got back from Paris.

She stood on the small stage, tapping a spoon against her champagne glass until the crystal rang sharply.

"Everyone!" she shrieked. "Listen up!"

The room went quiet.

The Capos, the soldiers, the politicians.

They all looked at her.

Some with amusement.

Most with judgment.

"I just want to say," Aria slurred, leaning heavily against me, nearly throwing me off balance. "That true love wins! We went through hell, didn't we, Benny? But we won!"

She kissed my cheek, leaving a wet smear of lipstick.

"To us!" she yelled.

"To the Underboss," the crowd murmured, raising their glasses.

I raised mine.

I drank.

The scotch burned, but it didn't fill the hole in my chest.

It felt... empty.

Usually, Kelsey would be standing here.

She would be quiet.

She would be elegant.

She would anticipate my needs before I even knew them.

If I was thirsty, a water would appear.

If I was bored, she would gracefully extract us from the conversation.

Aria just wanted more.

More attention.

More wine.

More noise.

"Isn't this great?" Aria whispered, hanging off my neck.

"Yeah," I said, forcing the word out. "Great."

I looked around the room.

I felt a phantom itch.

Something was wrong.

I excused myself and walked out onto the balcony.

I pulled out my phone.

I dialed Kelsey's number.

It went straight to voicemail.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I frowned.

She changed her number?

Petty.

She was just throwing a tantrum.

She would be back.

She had nowhere else to go. She was a Vitale. Her father wouldn't take her back; the alliance was too important.

She was probably sitting in some hotel room, crying, waiting for me to come save her.

I decided to go to the penthouse.

Our penthouse.

I left Aria dancing on a table and took the driver.

When I walked into the apartment, it was silent.

Cold.

"Kelsey?" I called out.

No answer.

I walked into the bedroom.

The closet doors were open.

Her side was empty.

Not just empty of clothes.

Empty of her.

The smell of her shampoo was gone.

The books on the nightstand were gone.

The sketchpad she always kept by the window was gone.

I walked to the dresser.

There was a small pile of jewelry there.

The necklace I bought her after the miscarriage scare.

The bracelet for our anniversary.

And right in the center...

My grandmother's brooch.

The one thing she had told me she cherished more than anything because it meant she was family.

I picked it up.

The pin pricked my finger.

A drop of blood welled up, bright red against the gold.

She left it.

She left everything.

I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the city that I ruled.

I had the power.

I had the money.

I had the girl carrying my heir.

I had won.

So why did the room feel so damn big?

I squeezed the brooch in my fist until the metal bent into my palm.

"You'll be back," I muttered to the reflection in the glass.

"You'll run out of money. You'll get scared. And you'll come crawling back."

I raised my glass to the empty room.

"To victory," I said.

But the silence that answered me was deafening.