Elena POV
Nonna flicked the signed papers toward my face. They fluttered down like dead leaves, settling silently on the expensive Persian rug.
I knelt to pick them up. My hands weren't shaking. For the first time in seven years, I took a breath that didn't feel like I was inhaling broken glass.
I had nothing. No money. No womb. No child.
But I had this piece of paper.
I was zipping the single duffel bag I had brought from the hospital—just a change of clothes and my sketchbook—when the door slammed open again.
This time, it was the devil himself.
Dante Moretti filled the doorway. He was six-foot-four of pure, unadulterated violence wrapped in a bespoke suit. He smelled of rain, sandalwood, and another woman's perfume.
He saw the bag. He saw the papers in my hand.
He closed the distance in two strides and snatched the papers from me. He didn't even read them. He just crumpled them in his fist.
"Going somewhere, wife?"
His voice was a low rumble that used to make my toes curl. Now, it just made me tired.
"I'm leaving, Dante. Nonna signed them. It's over."
He laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound. "Over? Nothing is over until I say it is."
He tossed the crumpled ball of paper into the fireplace, where a low fire was burning. I watched my freedom turn to ash, but I didn't panic. I had copies. I had digital backups sent to a lawyer in Zurich.
Sofia appeared in the doorway behind him. She was wearing a silk robe that I recognized. It was mine.
"Oh, let her go, Dante," she purred, leaning against the doorframe. "She's expired goods anyway. You need a real woman now. A Queen."
Dante didn't look at her. His eyes were locked on me, burning with a mix of confusion and rage.
"You think because you lost the baby, you get to walk away?" he sneered. "You think that makes you special? Women lose babies every day, Elena."
The cruelty of it took my breath away. He spoke about his own child like it was a set of lost car keys.
I looked at him. Really studied him. The sharp jawline I used to trace with my fingers. The dark eyes that once looked at me with adoration.
"I'm not leaving because I lost the baby, Dante. I'm leaving because I lost you. Years ago."
He stepped closer, invading my space. He grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my jaw.
"You belong to me," he hissed. "You are the Don's wife. You wear my ring. You live in my house. You don't get to quit."
I didn't pull away. I just stared up at him.
"Are you going to make Sofia the new Queen?" I asked softly.
He stiffened. Sofia let out a little gasp of excitement behind him.
Dante's grip on my face tightened. "I don't care about her," he said, loud enough for Sofia to hear. "She is a distraction. You are my property."
I saw Sofia flinch, but I felt nothing.
I reached up and took his hand, prying it from my face. His skin was warm. Mine was ice.
"You can keep the title, Dante. You can keep the house. You can keep the mistress."
I stepped back.
"But you can't keep me. Because there is nothing left of me to keep."
He looked at me, searching for the anger, the tears, the fire that usually lit up my eyes when we fought.
He found nothing.
"I'm not angry, Dante," I said, my voice flat.
His brow furrowed. "What?"
"I stopped loving you a long time ago."
