Elara POV:
The impact was brutal. The airbags in the front deployed with a violent bang, filling the car with white powder and the smell of chemicals. My head slammed into the back of the passenger seat with enough force to make my vision swim with black spots.
Dante’s first and only thought was for Seraphina. He threw his body over hers, shielding her from the spray of glass as the passenger-side window imploded.
“Sera? Are you hurt?” he asked frantically, his hands running over her arms, her face.
She sobbed in his arms, complaining of a pain in her wrist.
In the back, there was no airbag to cushion the blow. I was thrown against the door, my head cracking against the remaining glass. The wound in my back tore open further, and I could feel a warm, wet stickiness spreading across my clothes. Blood.
Dante glanced into the rearview mirror. His eyes met mine for a split second. I saw a flicker of something—shock, maybe—at the sight of the blood matting my hair. But then his gaze immediately returned to the crying woman in his arms.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Onlookers gathered, their faces pale and horrified.
The paramedics arrived, prying open the mangled doors.
“Save her first!” Dante screamed, pointing a shaking finger at Seraphina. “Get her out of here now!”
He never mentioned me. He never looked back.
My vision blurred. The world tilted sideways. I was abandoned in the wreckage, the twisted metal a cage around me. I tried to call for help, to say his name, but only a choked whisper came out.
He lifted Seraphina out of the car, cradling her as if she were made of glass, and rushed her toward the ambulance, his back to me the entire time.
The memory of his proposal flashed in my mind—down on one knee, promising to protect me for the rest of our lives. A promise as broken and useless as my body.
I passed out, the darkness a welcome relief.
I woke to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the soft beeping of a heart monitor. A cheerful nurse was adjusting my IV drip.
“You’re very lucky,” she said, beaming. “And your husband is a true hero. He adores you.”
I must have looked confused, because she pulled out her phone. “It’s gone viral! Look.”
She showed me a video, shaky footage from a bystander’s phone. It showed Dante, his face grim, his shirt stained with what everyone assumed was his own blood, “risking his life to save his wife from the wreckage.” The media had twisted the story, painting him as the devoted, heroic husband.
A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. The nurse looked at me, her smile faltering, unnerved by the sound. She made a quick excuse and left the room.
A moment later, the door opened.
It was Dante, holding a large bouquet of white lilies, my favorite flower. He looked tired, but unharmed. A hero, home from the war.
