The glow of the phone screen in my hand cut through the darkness of the hallway, a solitary beacon in the gloom.

For a split second, I actually considered saving him.

My father's call had ended three minutes ago, but the echo of his voice still rattled in my skull.

It was a rasp of sheer panic I had never heard from the Consigliere of the Viles crime family.

He told me Jax was marching straight into a trap set by the Rossi family.

They called it a "negotiation."

In reality, it was a blood sport-a gladiatorial trial designed to prove he hadn't gone soft.

To prove he was still worthy of the crown despite the chaotic mess he'd made protecting Catalina.

He was walking into a slaughterhouse.

For her.

I stared down at his contact name.

*Jax*.

No heart emoji. No affectionate nickname. Just the three sharp letters that used to define my entire existence.

"You're wasting your time," a voice drifted from the shadows, smooth and lethal.

I didn't flinch.

I turned slowly.

Catalina was leaning against the doorframe of the library, idly twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger.

She looked bored.

"He won't answer," she said, stepping into the dim pool of light. "He's busy being a hero. My hero."

"He's walking into an ambush, Catalina," I said, my voice dead flat. "My father says the odds are three to one. He could die tonight."

She smiled.

It wasn't a smile of concern.

It was the smile of a cat watching a bird collide with a windowpane-curious, but unbothered.

"I know," she said.

The air left my lungs in a rush. "You know?"

"I told him the Rossis insulted me," she said, examining the flawless coat on her manicured nails.

"I told him they said he was weak, that he was letting a woman run his house. I told him he needed to make a statement."

"You sent him there?" My grip on the phone tightened until the plastic casing groaned under the pressure. "You sent him to bleed just to stroke your own ego?"

"To test his loyalty," she corrected, her eyes flashing dark with possession.

"He's the heir. I need to know he's willing to burn everything down for me. Even himself. Especially himself."

She took a step closer, invading my personal space with a suffocating confidence.

"That's the difference between us, Eliana. You want him safe. I want him mine. And he needs to prove he belongs to me."

"He's not a dog you train with pain," I whispered, the words trembling.

"Isn't he?" She laughed-a brittle, ugly sound that scraped against the silence. "Watch."

She nodded at my phone.

I looked down.

My thumb hovered over the call button.

If I called him, if I warned him that the Rossis had brought in mercenaries, maybe he would rethink.

Maybe the rational part of him, the part that used to be my best friend, would listen.

I pressed the button.

It rang once.

Twice.

Catalina watched me, her expression unreadable.

On the third ring, the call connected.

"Jax," I breathed out. "Listen to me, the Rossis-"

*Click*.

The line went dead.

He hung up.

I stared at the screen, the call duration reading *00:03*.

He saw my name. He saw I was calling.

And he decided I wasn't worth the bandwidth.

Catalina let out a soft, satisfied hum. "See? He's busy."

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a loud break.

It was the quiet *ping* of a tension wire finally giving way after years of strain.

The fear for his life evaporated. The panic dissolved.

All that was left was a cold, arctic silence.

"You're right," I said, lowering the phone. "He is."

I walked past her.

I didn't run to my father. I didn't call the guards.

I went to my room and closed the door.

Two hours later, the livestream started.

It was a private feed, accessible only to the inner circle.

I sat on the edge of my bed, watching on my tablet.

The "negotiation" was held in an underground warehouse.

The floor was stained concrete. The lighting was harsh, industrial halogen.

Jax stood in the center.

He had taken off his jacket. His white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows, revealing the intricate ink on his forearms.

He looked calm.

Lethal.

Then the Rossis sent their men out.

Three of them. Each holding a blade.

Jax didn't have a weapon.

The fight was brutal. Animalistic.

I watched as the first knife slashed across Jax's chest, turning the crisp white cotton crimson.

I should have felt sick. I should have been screaming.

But I felt like I was watching a stranger on the evening news.

He moved with a terrifying grace-dodging, striking, breaking bone.

He fought like a man possessed.

He fought like a man who had something to prove to the woman waiting at home.

Just not me.

Every punch he threw, every drop of blood he spilled, was a love letter to Catalina.

It was his way of saying, *Look what I can endure for you*.

When he finally snapped the last man's arm and stood panting over the groaning bodies, blood dripping from his chin, the camera zoomed in on his face.

His eyes were wild.

Crazy.

He looked straight into the lens, as if he knew she was watching.

He didn't mouth *I'm okay*.

He mouthed *For you*.

I turned off the tablet.

I didn't cry. I didn't shake.

I just lay back on the pillows and listened to the rain hitting the window.

The man I loved died in that warehouse tonight.

The thing that walked out was just a weapon.

And weapons don't have hearts.

He returned a conqueror, painted in dried blood and arrogance.

I was standing in the foyer when the heavy oak doors swung open. I hadn't intended to be there, but Maria needed help shifting a vase, and my leg had finally healed enough to hobble around with a cane.

Jax strode in first. His shirt hung in tatters, plastered to his skin by a dried maroon crust. His lip was split, swollen and purple. He looked like a wreck, but he walked with the swagger of a god.

Catalina launched herself at him before he even cleared the threshold.

"Jax!" she screamed-a performance worthy of Broadway. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his ruined shirt and sobbing loudly. "I was so scared! I thought I lost you!"

He winced as she jostled his injuries, yet he didn't push her away. Instead, he wrapped his bloodied arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground.

"I told you," he rasped, his voice wrecked. "No one touches you. No one disrespects you."

He buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply, as if she were the oxygen he had been deprived of.

The household staff stood lined up against the wall, heads bowed in deference. The Capos behind him clapped him on the back. It was a hero's welcome.

I stood by the vase of white lilies, invisible.

Jax finally looked up. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on me. For a second, the adrenaline in his gaze faltered. He saw the cane. He saw the cast on my leg.

But then Catalina whimpered, drawing his attention back. "You're bleeding everywhere, baby. Come, let me clean you up."

"Yeah," he murmured. "Let's go."

He walked right past me. He didn't ask how I was. He didn't ask why I had called. He just walked up the stairs with his prize, leaving a trail of blood droplets on the marble floor that I would probably have to ask Maria to scrub later.

For the next three days, the house became a shrine to his victory. Catalina recounted the story to anyone who would listen, embellishing the details until Jax sounded like Achilles reborn.

I stayed in my room. I kept a laptop hidden under my mattress.

*Expedia. One-way. JFK to LGA. Then a train. Then a new life.*

I wasn't just leaving a relationship. I was defecting from a regime.

On the fourth night, a knock sounded at my door.

It opened before I could answer. Jax stood there. He was cleaned up, stitches marching across his eyebrow and lip. He held a large, velvet box.

He looked... sheepish. It was an expression that used to melt me. Now, it just looked like bad acting.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"You own the house, Jax," I said, not looking up from my book. "You go where you want."

He flinched but stepped inside. He placed the box on the foot of my bed.

"I know things have been... intense," he started, rubbing the back of his neck. "I haven't been around much. The business with the Rossis took everything out of me."

"It's fine," I said.

"It's not fine," he insisted, trying to sound noble. "I've neglected you. I want to make it up to you."

He gestured to the box. "Open it."

I sighed and reached for it. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, was a dress.

It was exquisite. Deep emerald silk, hand-embroidered with gold thread. It was a traditional belly dancing costume, the kind from the region my grandmother was from.

"I remembered you liked that weird dancing stuff," he said, looking proud of himself. "Thought you could wear it for me. Maybe tonight?"

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch my cheek. His thumb grazed my skin, rough and calloused.

"We haven't been together in a while," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "I miss you, Eliana."

I looked down at the dress. It was beautiful. It was expensive.

And it was an insult.

He didn't know *why* I danced. He didn't know it was my escape, my prayer, my art. To him, it was just "weird stuff" I did to entertain him. He saw me as a private stripper, not a dancer.

I pulled away from his touch.

"I can't," I said.

His brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"My leg, Jax," I said, gesturing to the cast. "I can barely walk to the bathroom. You think I can shimmy for you?"

He looked at the cast as if seeing it for the first time. "Oh. Right. I forgot."

He forgot.

"Well," he said, retracting his hand. "When you get that off then. Soon."

"Soon," I echoed.

"I'm trying here, Elie," he said, a hint of irritation creeping in. "I bought you a gift. I'm here. Stop being so cold."

"I'm tired, Jax. The pain meds make me sleepy."

He sighed, loud and dramatic. "Fine. Sleep. But fix your attitude. I just won a war for this family. A little gratitude wouldn't kill you."

He turned and walked out, leaving the expensive dress on the bed like a tip on a nightstand.

I waited until his footsteps faded down the hall.

I picked up the dress. The silk felt like water against my fingers.

I walked to the trash can and dropped it inside.

Then I pulled out my laptop.

*Confirm Booking.*

New York. Tuesday. 6:00 AM.

I wasn't waiting for the cast to come off. I was limping out of hell.

The night before I planned to leave, Jax summoned me to the solarium.

"Summoned" was truly the only word for it.

A guard had pounded on my door and informed me that the Don requested my presence for dinner.

I wore a simple white dress that hung loosely on my frame. I didn't bother with jewelry. I didn't bother with makeup to hide the bruise-colored circles under my eyes.

When I entered the glass-walled room, I stopped dead.

It was... a stage set.

Candles were everywhere, hundreds of them, their flames flickering against the glass that looked out over the darkened estate grounds.

The table was set with his mother's finest china. A string quartet was playing in the corner-*Clair de Lune*, my favorite piece.

Jax stood by the table in a tuxedo. He looked like the prince from every fairytale I was fed as a child, polished and perfect.

"Eliana," he said, pulling out a chair. "Sit."

I sat. My cane clattered softly as I leaned it against the table.

"What is this?" I asked.

"An apology," he said, pouring a rich red wine. "A real one. I know I've been distracted. But I want you to know, you're still... vital to me. You're my future."

He reached across the table and took my hand. His palm was warm.

For a second, just a split second, my heart stuttered. This was the Jax I remembered. The one who used to hide flowers in my locker.

"I want us to go back to how we were," he said softly. "Before the stress. Before everything got complicated."

He squeezed my hand. "Look outside."

I turned my head.

A sudden hiss cut through the air, followed by a thundering boom.

Fireworks exploded over the garden in a shower of sparks. Red, gold, and green.

They formed letters in the sky, burning bright against the black velvet night.

*E-L-I-A-N-A*

It was grand. It was excessive. It was exactly the kind of gesture that was supposed to make a girl forget that her fiancé had watched her fall down a flight of stairs.

"Do you like it?" he asked, a boyish grin on his face.

Before I could answer, the glass doors slid open with a soft whir.

Catalina sauntered in.

She was wearing a silk robe tied loosely at the waist, holding a tumbler of whiskey.

"Oh, good! They went off on time," she said, clapping her hands lightly.

Jax looked at her, then back at me. He didn't look angry that she had interrupted. He looked... grateful. Relieved, even.

"You did good, Cat," he said.

The air left my lungs. "What?"

Catalina drifted over to the table, picking a grape off Jax's plate.

"The fireworks," she said, popping the fruit into her mouth. "Jax didn't know who to call. I have a cousin in pyrotechnics. I set it all up. Even picked the colors."

She winked at me over the rim of her glass.

"Green for envy. Red for blood. Gold for... well, gold digger."

She laughed, a sound like breaking glass.

I looked at Jax. "You didn't plan this?"

"I paid for it," he said, immediately defensive. "Cat just handled the logistics. She knows I'm busy with the clean-up from the Rossi fight. She wanted to help me do something nice for you."

"She wanted to help you," I repeated, my voice hollow.

"Yeah," Jax said, oblivious. "She's been great, Eliana. Really supportive of us. She even reminded me it was our dating anniversary next week."

I stared at him.

He didn't remember our anniversary. *She* reminded him.

He didn't plan the dinner. *She* did.

He didn't order the fireworks. *She* did.

Every romantic gesture, every moment of kindness in the last month... it had all been filtered through her.

She was orchestrating my relationship. She was pulling the strings, making Jax dance, making me dance.

I was sitting at a dinner table set by the woman who wanted to replace me, eating food she ordered, watching fireworks she bought, holding the hand of a man who couldn't even be bothered to remember what date it was.

"This isn't romantic, Jax," I said, pulling my hand away as if burned. "This is a puppet show."

"What?" He frowned.

"You're not doing this for me," I said, my voice rising. "You're doing this because she told you to. You aren't the playwright, Jax. You're just following her script."

"You're being ungrateful," Catalina chimed in, leaning on Jax's shoulder. "He spent a fortune."

"I don't care about the money!" I snapped. "I care that my fiancé needs his mistress to tell him how to love me!"

Jax slammed his hand on the table. The silverware rattled violently.

"She is not my mistress!" he roared. "She is family! And she is trying to help! Why can't you just accept a nice thing without analyzing it to death?"

"Because it's fake!" I yelled back. "It's all fake! You're fake!"

I grabbed my cane and stood up.

"Sit down, Eliana," Jax warned, his voice dropping to that dangerous register.

"No."

I started walking away.

"If you walk out of here," he called out, "don't expect me to come chasing you."

I stopped at the door. I didn't turn around.

"I stopped expecting anything from you a long time ago, Jax."

I walked out.

Behind me, I heard Catalina laugh.

"See?" she said. "I told you she wouldn't appreciate it. You should have just bought her a car."

"Yeah," Jax muttered. "Maybe you're right."