Elena POV
The safe house was a small, nondescript cottage perched on the jagged edge of the cliffs, miles away from the reach of the Rossi territory.
I collapsed onto the sofa, my clothes heavy with rain, my body trembling violently.
An older woman entered the room.
Maria.
She was one of my father's most loyal shadows, a ghost from a life I thought I had lost forever.
She didn't ask questions.
She didn't need to.
She saw my state, saw the protective way I cradled my stomach, and the realization dawned in her eyes.
"Oh, my child," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
She brought thick wool blankets.
She brought steaming hot broth.
She touched my forehead with a hand that felt like a mother's, not a servant's.
"You are safe here," she promised. "Don Stefano has arranged everything."
For the first time in two years, I wasn't a bargaining chip to be traded.
I was just Elena.
"He doesn't know," I told her, my voice cracking under the weight of the secret. "Dante doesn't know about the baby."
Maria’s eyes hardened, flashing with a fierce, protective light.
"Good," she said, the word sharp as a blade. "He doesn't deserve to know."
She helped me change into dry, warm clothes.
She packed my bag with efficiency.
"The plane is waiting," she said softly.
We drove in silence to a private airstrip in the middle of nowhere.
The rain had finally stopped, leaving the black tarmac glistening like oil under the harsh floodlights.
A pilot stood waiting by the sleek white jet.
He tipped his cap.
"Ms. Rossi," he said.
Not Mrs. Rossi.
Ms. Rossi.
He treated me with a deference that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with respect.
"We are ready when you are," he informed me. "The academy in Zurich is expecting you. Your father says it's time you took your place at the table."
My place.
Not standing behind a man.
But at the head of my own table.
I walked toward the metal stairs, my hand gripping the rail.
Then I heard it.
The roar of engines tearing through the silence.
Black SUVs screamed onto the tarmac, tires screeching against the wet pavement.
My heart stopped in my chest.
I froze on the steps.
Dante.
He jumped out of the lead car before it had even fully stopped.
He looked unraveled.
His hair was plastered to his forehead, his shirt unbuttoned and clinging to his chest.
He was scanning the area, his eyes frantic, wild.
He was looking for something.
Looking for me?
He turned toward the plane.
Our eyes didn't meet—he was too far away—but I saw him pause.
He felt it.
I knew he felt it. The severing of the final thread between us.
Then the back door of his SUV flew open.
Vanessa stumbled out, sobbing loudly, a performance for an audience of one.
"Dante! Please! I can't breathe!"
She collapsed dramatically onto the wet pavement.
Dante’s head snapped toward her.
He looked at the plane one last time, a look of confusion and agonizing longing etched onto his face.
Then he turned back to Vanessa.
He ran to her.
He chose her.
Again.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, the finality of it settling in my bones.
"Let's go," I said to the pilot, turning my back on the scene.
I climbed into the cabin and the door sealed shut.
The engines roared to life, drowning out the memory of Vanessa’s screams.
I sat by the window as we began to taxi.
I looked down at the scarf loosely knotted around my neck.
It was Hermès.
Dante had bought it for me in Paris, a souvenir from a trip where he spent three days in boardrooms and one single hour with me.
I opened the small window vent just as the plane gathered speed.
The cold night air rushed in, biting my skin.
I untied the silk.
I watched it flutter in my hands for a second, a ghost of a marriage that never truly existed.
Then I let go.
It whipped out into the night, a streak of color instantly swallowed by the darkness.
"What was that?" the pilot asked over the intercom.
"Just trash," I said calmly.
The plane accelerated.
I felt the force pressing me back into the leather seat.
We lifted off.
I looked down at the ground shrinking below me.
I saw the tiny dots of the cars.
I saw the tiny dot of the man who had broken me.
"Goodbye, my past," I whispered against the glass.
I closed my eyes and placed a protective hand over my stomach.
"Hello, my future."
I wasn't running away.
I was ascending.
And when I finally came back down, I wouldn't be the rain.
I would be the storm.
