The clinic staff bandaged my burns and gave me strong painkillers.

Matteo never came.

My phone buzzed with a text: She's threatening to starve herself. I have to stay. Come home. I love you.

I didn't reply. I just deleted it.

I went back to the De Luca estate.

The house wasn't quiet; it was still. An unnerving stillness.

I climbed the stairs, my only goal the master bedroom. I needed to get out of this ruined dress and sleep for a week.

But the door was ajar.

Inside, chaos reigned. Boxes everywhere.

Bianca stood in the center of the room, directing two terrified-looking maids.

"Put those in the attic," she ordered, pointing a manicured finger at a pile of my things.

My ballet shoes. My old practice tutus. My photos from Moscow.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

Bianca turned.

She was wearing one of Matteo's crisp white shirts, the hem brushing her thighs.

"Oh, Sierra," she said softly, her eyes wide with manufactured innocence.

"Didn't Matteo tell you?"

"Tell me what?" I stepped into the room, my heart beginning a dull, heavy thud against my ribs.

"A pipe burst in the guest wing," she explained lightly.

"It flooded. Completely unlivable."

She smoothed the front of Matteo's shirt.

"Matteo said I should stay in the master bedroom until they fix the guest rooms. He said you wouldn't mind moving to one of the guest rooms down the hall."

She paused, her smile sharpening.

"Since... since you two are divorced anyway."

She gestured with her chin towards the signed divorce papers on the nightstand.

Rage, hot and stinging, finally broke through the numbing haze of the painkillers.

"Get out," I said.

She smiled, a cruel twist of her lips that Matteo never saw.

"He doesn't love you, Sierra," she murmured, stepping into my personal space.

"He married you for the alliance. He stays with me because of blood."

Her gaze drifted over my bandages.

"You were just a placeholder."

She picked up a framed photo of Matteo and me from our wedding day.

She held it for a moment, then let her fingers go slack.

The glass didn't just break; it shattered with a deafening crack, exploding across the hardwood floor.

"Oops," she said, not looking down.

"PTSD tremors. I'm so clumsy."

I lunged at her.

I wasn't thinking. Adrenaline erased the pain.

I just wanted to wipe that smug smile off her face.

I grabbed her arm.

She screamed-a piercing, ear-splitting shriek that echoed through the house.

"Get off me!" she shrieked.

And then she pushed.

Hard.

I was standing at the top of the landing, near the open door.

My heel caught on the edge of the Persian runner.

I tipped backward.

Time stretched, becoming a slow, agonizing crawl. I saw the crystal facets of the chandelier above me, winking like a thousand indifferent eyes.

I saw Bianca's face, the muscles twitching in a grotesque victory smile.

And then I saw Matteo, sprinting down the hallway, his eyes locking on mine just as gravity took hold.

"Matteo!" I screamed.

But he was too far away.

I hit the first step.

Then the second.

Bone against marble.

The ceiling and floor became a kaleidoscope of pain and color as I was thrown down the long, curving staircase, my body slamming against the unforgiving stone.

When I finally came to a stop at the bottom, a profound silence rushed in.

I couldn't feel my legs.

I stared at the ceiling, a single tear escaping the corner of my eye.

Matteo was beside me instantly, his hands hovering over my broken body, his face white as a ghost.

"Sierra! Oh God, Sierra!"

From the top of the stairs, Bianca started screaming hysterically.

"He hit me! The kidnapper hit me! Get away!"

She was reenacting the past.

Matteo looked up at her, torn-the screaming woman above, the broken wife below.

Then he looked down at me.

I saw it in his eyes.

The hesitation.

That single moment of hesitation hurt more than the fall itself; it was the final blow, the one that truly shattered my spine. The marble had just caused the cracks. This would be the last time.

Sierra's POV:

I woke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic, hollow beeping of machines, my limbs heavy and stiff.

I tried to move my legs.

I sent the command, but the signal went nowhere. Nothing happened.

A cold wave of panic tightened its grip on my throat.

Matteo sat in the chair by the bed, his head in his hands.

His usually immaculate suit was wrinkled, his hair disheveled.

The moment my breath hitched, his head snapped up.

"Sierra," he breathed, surging forward to grab my hand.

"Thank God."

"My back," I rasped.

"It's... it's a severe fracture," he said, his voice trembling.

"The doctors say, with extensive therapy, you might walk again."

Might.

My dance. My freedom.

Gone.

"I want the police," I whispered.

Matteo went still.

He pulled his hand back as if burned.

"Sierra, listen to me," he said, his voice hardening into something cold and authoritative, yet laced with a pained tremor. "We can't involve the police."

"She pushed me, Matteo," I said, hot tears escaping. "She tried to kill me."

"She was having an episode," he said quickly, defensively. "She thought you were an attacker. She doesn't even remember doing it. Sierra, if it were anyone else, anyone, I'd have them skinned alive for touching you. You know I would. But it's Bianca. She's fragile. If the police come, they'll arrest her. She wouldn't survive prison. Please don't be unreasonable."

I stared at him in disbelief.

He was placing her hypothetical survival over my actual broken back.

"I'm pressing charges," I said, my voice rising hysterically.

"No," he said.

It wasn't a request.

It was an order.

"It's already handled," he continued. "The hallway security footage is gone. It was an accident. You fell. That's what happened. Omertà, Sierra. We don't bring outsiders into our business."

Erased.

He'd erased the truth.

He'd erased my pain.

He'd erased me.

"You chose her," I said.

"I'm protecting the family," he said, standing up.

"I'm protecting you from scandal. Rest now."

He headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice breaking.

"She's in the next room, sedated," he said, still not meeting my eyes.

"She needs someone there when she wakes up. She's scared."

And then he walked out, leaving his paralyzed wife in a hospital bed to go hold the hand of the woman who'd put her there.

I closed my eyes.

For the first time in five years, I didn't pray for him to come back.

I prayed for the strength to become a ghost.

Sierra's POV:

Two months later.

I was back at the estate, a prisoner in my own home, confined to a wheelchair.

My parents had visited me only once during my recovery.

My father, a retired mobster himself, had looked at Matteo with eyes like cold flint.

I knew he suspected the truth.

But he said nothing. His respect for the Boss ran deep.

My mother, however, was different.

As she hugged me goodbye, her trembling hands pressed a small, warm object into my palm.

A phone.

"Call us when you're ready," she whispered against my hair, her voice barely audible.

I was ready.

I'd called them that morning, my fingers shaking as I dialed.

The jet was waiting in a private hangar in Jersey.

I just needed to get out.

But Matteo, as always, had other plans.

"The Commission dinner is tonight," he announced, striding in as a nurse adjusted the straps on my leg braces.

"You're coming."

"I can't walk, Matteo," I said, watching him in the mirror.

"You'll be sitting down. You'll look beautiful," he replied smoothly.

He came over and kissed the top of my head, a gesture more of ownership than affection.

"We need to show a united front. Rumors are flying that I hurt you."

So I was a prop. Again.

I sat silently, passively, as the nurse dressed me in a long, black velvet gown.

It was thick and dark, perfect for hiding the ugly metal braces. The dress's bodice provided agonizing support for my injured spine, and every jolt on the way to the venue sent a bolt of fire through my lower back.

An hour later, we arrived.

The flashbulbs blinded me as Matteo wheeled me up the red carpet.

He played the devoted husband to perfection, leaning down to whisper in my ear, his hand possessive on my shoulder, smiling for the cameras.

Then the crowd parted.

I saw her.

Bianca.

She was wearing a red dress.

I gasped.

It wasn't just any red dress.

It was the silk gown Matteo had given me for my birthday last month. The one he'd deemed too revealing for his wife, but apparently perfect for his ward.

She glided over to us, a glass of champagne dangling from her fingers.

"Sierra," she cooed.

"I have a surprise for you," she murmured against my skin.

She straightened up and reached into her clutch.

For a moment, I thought she was pulling out a weapon.

Instead, she produced a stack of photos.

"Look what I found!" she announced, her voice pitched a little higher to attract the attention of the other wives nearby.

"Photos of you with that Russian bodyguard."

I nearly tipped the chair backward in shock.

"What?" I breathed.

She fanned them out like a winning hand.

Me, stumbling out of a car. A large man holding me in his arms.

I recognized it immediately. It was the night I'd been forced to drink with the Bratva. The bodyguard rushing me to the hospital when I started vomiting blood.

But here, it looked like a sordid tryst in a parking garage.

"You've been cheating on Matteo," Bianca declared, her voice laced with calculated outrage.

"That's why you fell down the stairs, isn't it? You were drunk and guilty!"

The hum of conversation in the room died instantly.

Matteo snatched the photos from her hand.

His eyes scanned them, back and forth.

"Matteo, that's not what it looks like," I started, panic flooding me.

He looked at me.

And in his eyes, I didn't see trust.

I saw doubt.

He believed her. For even a single moment, he thought I'd lied.

Bianca smiled at me over his shoulder.

I laughed.

It was a dry, broken sound, scraping its way out of my throat.

Slowly, deliberately, I reached into the side pocket of my wheelchair.

I pulled out the burner phone.

I didn't care about the photos anymore. I didn't care about the lies.

I looked up at Matteo, seeing him clearly for the first time.

"I hope she was worth it," I said quietly.

"What?" he frowned, confused.

"My life," I said.

And then I tossed the phone onto his lap.

On the screen, glowing brightly in the dimly lit hall, was a single sent message:

I'm at the gala. Come get me. Burn it all down.

The double doors of the ballroom burst open with a deafening crash that vibrated through the floor.

But it wasn't my father standing there.

It was Marco Romano, the rival boss from Chicago.

He wasn't looking at Matteo.

He was smiling at Bianca.

My heart stopped.

This trap wasn't set for me.

It was set for Matteo.

And I was just the bait who'd broken free.