Morning light streamed through the windows, harsh and unforgiving. Helena woke up with a stiff neck, still sitting in the armchair by the window.
She stood up and tried the bedroom door. It turned. He had unlocked it at some point during the night.
She walked out into the living room. It was empty. No Dante. No guards. Just the faint smell of coffee lingering in the air.
Martha, the housekeeper, emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray with a single plate of scrambled eggs and fruit. She set it down on the dining table, avoiding Helena's eyes.
"Good morning, Mrs. Velasquez," Martha said quietly. "Mr. Velasquez asked me to inform you that you are not to leave the building today."
"So I'm under house arrest," Helena said flatly.
"I'm just relaying the message, ma'am."
Martha left the room. Helena walked over to the dining table but ignored the food. Her eyes were drawn to the coffee table. Sitting in the center was the velvet box.
She knew without opening it what was inside. But she opened it anyway.
The Alhambra necklace lay coiled on the white satin, the gold and carnelian gleaming under the lights. It was exactly as she had left it at the consignment shop.
Tucked under the necklace was a small, square card. Dante's handwriting was sharp and angular.
"Velasquez property does not leave the family."
Helena stared at the words. It wasn't a romantic gesture. It was a brand. He had bought it back just to prove a point. She was his possession, and he would retrieve his property no matter where she tried to hide it.
She snapped the box shut and shoved it into the drawer of the side table, slamming it closed. She didn't want to look at it.
She went back to the bedroom and grabbed her laptop. If she was stuck here, she might as well research her destination. She spent the next hour browsing apartments in Berlin and looking up dance studios near the Staatsoper, careful to use a private browsing window, a futile gesture she knew wouldn't stop him if he was truly watching. She was just killing time, waiting for the right moment to use the burner phone tucked away in her ballet shoe box. A notification popped up in the corner of her screen. It was from Vanity Fair.
"THE RETURN OF THE YEAR! Dante Velasquez and Kinsley Spencer Dazzle at Children's Hospital Gala!"
Helena's finger hovered over the trackpad. She knew she shouldn't click it. It would only hurt. But morbid curiosity won out.
The article loaded, and a high-resolution photo filled the screen. Dante was standing in a ballroom, looking devastatingly handsome in a Tom Ford tuxedo. Beside him, holding onto his arm like she belonged there, was Kinsley Spencer.
Kinsley was wearing a Dior gown the color of a midnight sky. Her leg was hidden beneath the voluminous skirt, but she stood tall, her smile radiant and unburdened. Dante was looking down at her, that same expression of devotion Helena had seen in the hospital room.
The article gushed about their "lifelong bond" and how Dante had been "by her side throughout her recovery." It called them the "golden couple" of New York society.
The timestamp on the article was last night.
While Helena had been locked in her bedroom, forced to undergo a humiliating blood test to prove she wasn't a scheming liar, her husband had been parading his mistress in front of the world's cameras.
Helena scrolled down to the comments.
"They are endgame! So romantic!"
"Finally! Kinsley is the real Mrs. Velasquez."
"Helena who?"
A laugh bubbled up from Helena's throat. It was a harsh, broken sound that turned into a sob before she could stop it. Tears spilled down her cheeks, but she didn't wipe them away.
She had spent two years fighting for a man who didn't want her. She had endured Debora's cruelty, Dante's coldness, and the isolation of this gilded cage, all for the sake of a vow that only she seemed to honor.
And for what? To be a placeholder? A dirty secret?
She looked at the photo again. Dante and Kinsley looked perfect. They looked like a fairy tale.
Helena closed the laptop. She wiped her face with the back of her hand and took a deep, shuddering breath.
The tears stopped. The grief evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hard core of resolve.
She didn't care anymore. She didn't care if Dante loved Kinsley. She didn't care if the whole world thought Kinsley was his wife. She didn't care about the necklace, or the money, or the Velasquez name.
She only cared about getting out.
She stood up and walked over to the closet. She pulled out a simple black dress and a pair of sensible flats. She dressed quickly, her movements precise and deliberate.
She was done crying. She was done being a victim. Dante Velasquez wanted a war? He was about to get one.
