Elena POV
My phone lit up on the nightstand, casting a harsh glare in the dark.
Drinking with associates. Don't wait up.
I didn't reply. I didn't even unlock the screen.
I wasn't waiting up. I was already asleep. Or at least, trying to be.
The empty side of the bed was cold. It used to feel like a gaping wound, a physical ache in my chest. Tonight, it just felt like space. Just square footage.
I woke up at 6 AM.
I cleaned the penthouse. I made coffee. Black, no sugar.
Just the way I liked it. Just the way he never bothered to remember.
The front door opened at 7.
Dante walked in. He looked rough, the polish of the city's golden boy stripped away by the night. His tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck.
He smelled like stale smoke and yesterday's bourbon.
Regret? No. Just a hangover.
I was taking the trash bag out of the bin when he stopped in the hallway, blinking at me through bloodshot eyes.
"Is your phone broken?" he asked.
His voice was a gravelly growl, rough with exhaustion.
"No," I said.
"You didn't check in," he said, leaning against the wall as if the world were tilting. "I didn't get a single text asking when I'd be home."
"I was sleeping."
He frowned. He didn't like that answer. He preferred me anxious. He liked me pacing the floor, worrying if he was dead in a ditch or in another woman's bed.
He walked past me toward the bedroom, then paused at the console table in the hallway.
He stared at the wall. There was a square of lighter paint on the gray wallpaper where a frame used to hang.
"Where is the photo?" he asked.
The photo of us. Taken five years ago. Before the light went out of my eyes.
"The frame broke," I said. My voice was steady.
"Fix it," he said.
He didn't ask how it broke. He didn't care.
His phone vibrated in his hand. He looked down, and the hard line of his jaw softened. A small smile touched his lips.
He pressed a button and brought the phone to his mouth, turning slightly away from me.
"Sleep well, little one. I'll see you at the office."
He walked into the bedroom, closing the door in my face.
I stood there holding the trash bag. My hands started to shake. Not from emotion. I told myself it wasn't emotion.
It was hunger. My blood sugar was crashing.
I dropped the bag and went to the kitchen. I put a slice of bread in the toaster. My vision was swimming at the edges. I needed sugar. I needed food.
Twenty minutes later, Dante came back out.
He had changed into a fresh suit. He looked impeccable again. The Capo armor was back on, tight and tailored.
He saw me eating the dry toast and scoffed.
"God, Elena," he snapped, adjusting his cufflinks. "I come home starving, and you're stuffing your face? You couldn't wait five minutes to cook for me?"
He snatched the toast from my hand and dropped it into the trash bin.
"We eat when I say we eat," he said. "Make me eggs."
I looked at the trash bin. My breakfast. My fuel.
"I'm going to be late for work," I said.
"You work for me," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You're never late unless I say you are."
He turned his back to fill a glass of water.
I didn't make the eggs.
I picked up my purse and walked out the door.
In the elevator, the silence ringing in my ears, I opened social media. I went to his profile.
He had changed his cover photo. It used to be the skyline of the city he ruled. Now, it was a photo of a coffee cup with lipstick stains on the rim.
Her lipstick.
Caption: Morning essentials.
I didn't cry. I didn't feel anything at all.
I tapped the screen. I liked the photo.
Then I went to my contacts. I found Dante - My Life.
I changed it to Dante Moretti.
I unpinned him from the top.
I watched his name slide down the list, buried under the dry cleaner and the dog walker.
It was a small thing. But it felt like cutting a chain.
