Elena Rossi POV
Graduation day was a suffocating sea of black robes and brittle, forced smiles.
I sat in the third row, my hands clenched tight in my lap. The seat next to me was glaringly empty.
I hadn't invited my parents; the flight was too expensive, and I didn't want them to see that the "boyfriend" they adored wasn't there.
Dante wasn't there.
He was trending on Twitter, though.
A photo from Paris. Dante and Sofia standing on a balcony, the Eiffel Tower looming in the background. The caption read: *The Vitiello King and his Queen take Europe.*
He had missed my graduation to buy her macaroons.
"Is this seat taken?"
I looked up. Julian Cavalli was standing there, his gown unzipped, a reckless, lopsided grin on his face. He looked like golden defiance in a room full of shadows.
"Technically, no," I said. "But it's reserved for a ghost."
Julian sat down anyway, sprawling into the space. "I don't believe in ghosts. I believe in surgeons."
When my name was called—*Elena Rossi, Summa Cum Laude*—Julian cheered louder than anyone.
He whistled. He clapped until his hands must have stung.
For a few seconds, I wasn't the discarded mistress. I was a scholar. I was brilliant.
After the ceremony, the crowd thinned out. Families were taking photos, hugging, crying. I stood by a pillar, an observer in my own life.
A black SUV pulled up to the curb. My heart did a violent, traitorous flip.
Dante stepped out. He was still in the same suit from the airport photos. He must have flown straight back. He looked shattered, his eyes bruised by dark circles of fatigue.
He walked over to me. He didn't have flowers. He didn't have a card.
He had his phone in his hand.
"I have a flight to New York in two hours," he said. No hello. No congratulations. "My driver is sick. Drive me."
It was absurd. It was cruel.
"I just graduated, Dante."
"And now you have a job to do," he said, his voice flat. "Get in the car."
I looked at Julian, who was watching us from a distance, his brow furrowed in concern. I shook my head at him. *It's okay. One last time.*
I got in the driver's seat. Dante got in the back.
The drive to LAX was suffocatingly silent. He spent the entire time typing on his encrypted phone, making deals that would probably get people killed.
When we reached the private terminal, I put the car in park.
"Wait here for the valet," he said, opening the door.
He stepped out. He didn't look back.
"Dante," I said.
He paused, one foot on the tarmac. He looked over his shoulder, impatient.
"What?"
"Some debts can't be paid with cash," I said.
He frowned, confused. "What are you talking about?"
I got out of the car. I walked around to him. I took his hand. His skin was warm, rough. Lethal.
I squeezed it once. A final pulse of contact.
"Safe travels," I whispered.
He pulled his hand away, adjusting his cuff. "I'll be back on Tuesday. Have dinner ready."
He turned and walked toward the jet.
I watched him go. He ascended the stairs, disappearing into the metal belly of the beast.
He thought I would be there on Tuesday. He thought I would be there forever.
I got back into the car, drove it to the valet, and handed over the keys. Then I walked to the international terminal.
I took the SIM card out of my phone and snapped it in half.
I dropped the pieces into a trash can, listening to the faint rattle as they hit the bottom.
I boarded the plane to Zurich. I didn't look out the window as we took off. I didn't want to see the city that had almost swallowed me whole.
