Elena POV
Friday.
It was my last day in hell.
Dante was waiting outside the office building in his silver Maserati. He didn't get out to open the door for me; he simply hit the unlock button, the mechanism clicking with a hollow sound.
I slid into the passenger seat, the leather feeling bitingly cool against my legs.
"We are going to Le Jardin," he said.
He didn't look at me. His attention was entirely consumed by the screen of his phone as his thumbs flew across the glass.
Le Jardin was expensive. It was flashy. It was exactly the kind of place you took a woman when you wanted to be seen, rather than heard.
The waiter seated us at a table near the window. Before I could even open the menu, Dante ordered for us.
"Steak, rare. A bottle of heavy Cabernet."
I loathed Cabernet. The heavy tannins triggered blinding migraines, a fact I had repeated a dozen times over the last eight years.
He never remembered. Or perhaps, he simply didn't care.
I sat in silence, tracing the rim of my water glass. Dante finally put his phone down. He looked at me, an expression of expectant gratitude on his face.
"You look tired," he said.
"I am tired," I replied.
He frowned. "Don't start complaining, Elena. I took time out of my schedule for this."
"For what?" I asked.
He looked confused. "Dinner. It's Friday."
He didn't know.
He genuinely didn't know what day it was.
My heart didn't break. It simply hardened. It calcified into something impenetrable.
I excused myself to the restroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a ghost—a specter haunting a designer dress.
When I walked back to the table, the lights in the restaurant dimmed. A waiter was walking toward us with a cake, a sparkler sizzling on top.
For a second, I felt a jolt of shock. Maybe he remembered. Maybe this was all an elaborate game.
The waiter walked past our table.
He stopped at the booth behind us.
"Happy Birthday!" a chorus of voices sang to a stranger.
I sat down. Dante was pouring the wine I hated.
"What was that about?" he asked, gesturing vaguely to the fading sparkler.
"Someone's birthday," I said.
He hummed, uninterested.
My phone buzzed in my clutch. It was a text from my service provider.
Happy Birthday, Elena. Enjoy 5GB of free data.
It was the only wish I would receive today.
"I'm not hungry," I said.
Dante sighed, the sound heavy with irritation. He tossed his napkin onto the table.
"Fine. Let's go for a walk. The pier is nearby."
We walked to the pier in silence. The ocean air was thick and salty. The Ferris Wheel lit up the night sky, a giant spinning circle of neon against the dark.
I used to love the Ferris Wheel. I used to think it was the height of romance.
Dante stopped walking. His body went rigid.
I followed his gaze.
Sofia was there.
She was sitting on a bench near the ticket booth, looking frail and lost. The moment she saw us, she stood up, swayed dangerously, and took a few stumbling steps.
Dante moved before I did. He caught her just as she crumpled.
"Sofia," he breathed. "What are you doing here?"
"I just needed air," she whispered, clutching his lapels. "The hospital was too suffocating."
She looked at me over his shoulder. Her eyes were dry. Clear. Calculated.
"I didn't mean to intrude," she said, her voice trembling with practiced fragility.
Dante smoothed her hair. "You are not intruding. Are you okay?"
"I think I need to sit down," she said. "Somewhere high up. The air is better up there."
She pointed at the Ferris Wheel.
Dante looked at the wheel. Then he looked at me.
"There are only two seats left in the VIP cabin!" the operator called out.
Dante didn't hesitate. He didn't even struggle with the decision.
"Wait here, Elena," he said. "She's having an episode. I need to make sure she doesn't faint again."
He took Sofia's hand. He guided her into the cage.
The operator locked the bar.
The wheel began to turn.
I watched them rise. I watched Dante put his arm around her shoulders. I watched Sofia rest her head on his chest.
They became small silhouettes against the moon.
I looked down at my feet. My heels were pinching my toes. I took them off, holding the straps in my hand.
I turned my back on the ocean. I turned my back on the wheel.
I walked to the taxi stand barefoot.
The ride back to the penthouse took twenty minutes.
I packed one bag. My Go Bag.
Cash. Fake ID. The burner phone my mother gave me.
I left everything he had bought me. The clothes. The jewelry. The emptiness.
I put my key to the penthouse under the welcome mat.
I left two words scrawled on the back of a utility bill.
It's Over.
I walked out into the night, and for the first time in eight years, I could finally breathe.
