Chapter 5

Seraphina POV:

Ethan's public declaration worked exactly as he'd intended. The Rinaldi family, the ones responsible for his ambush six months prior, took the bait. They saw his press conference not as a statement of love, but as an insult-a blatant lie meant to distract from his weakness. And they decided to call his bluff by taking the piece he claimed to value most.

They came for me at dawn. Four men, professional and silent. They bypassed the hotel security with unnerving ease. There was no struggle. I knew better than to fight. I simply allowed them to place a black hood over my head and lead me away. I was a pawn, just as Ethan had planned.

They took me to the top of an unfinished skyscraper overlooking the city. The wind whipped around me, cold and sharp. When they removed the hood, I was standing dangerously close to the edge. Marco Rinaldi, the family's brutish underboss, stood before me, a phone pressed to his ear.

"I have her, Costello," he snarled into the phone. "Your precious wife. Looks like you'll have to choose."

I couldn't hear Ethan's reply, but I saw the sneer that spread across Marco's face.

"Is that so?" Marco laughed, a cruel, ugly sound. "She's nothing to you? Just a liability? Well then, you won't mind if I lighten your load." He looked at me, his eyes dead and empty. "Your husband says to tell you he's sorry."

He was cutting me loose. Not just using me as bait, but actively collaborating in my death to solve his problem. It was the ultimate, final betrayal.

Marco's men grabbed my arms. I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I just looked out at the city that had been my kingdom and my cage.

And then, they pushed me.

The fall felt like an eternity. The wind screamed in my ears. I didn't see my life flash before my eyes. I only felt a single, searing emotion: rage. A rage so pure and hot it burned away the fear.

I landed in a miracle-a huge pile of construction debris and sandbags two floors below. The impact was brutal. Pain, white-hot and absolute, shot through my body. My leg was bent at an unnatural angle. I felt ribs crack. But I was alive.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital. Not one of Ethan's. This one was clean, anonymous, and under the protection of Dante Moretti. Dante himself was there when I opened my eyes. He stood by the window, a silhouette against the grey morning light, his presence filling the room.

"You have a broken femur, three cracked ribs, and a severe concussion," he said, his voice a low rumble. He turned, and his dark eyes assessed me with an unnerving intensity. "Ethan Costello left you to die."

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

I just nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

In the days that followed, Ethan tried to see me. He sent extravagant gifts-a diamond bracelet that could fund a small army, a roomful of exotic flowers. He was putting on a show for the world, playing the part of the relieved, doting husband. The guards Dante had posted outside my door turned him away every time.

One evening, he got past them. He must have bribed a nurse. He strode into my room, his face a perfect blend of concern and relief. "Sera. My God, I was so worried."

I didn't say a word. I just turned my head away from him, staring at the blank wall.

He kept talking, his voice filling the sterile silence. "I'm taking you home. We'll get the best doctors. I'll take care of you."

I remained silent. His words were meaningless noise. The man who had orchestrated my murder was now promising to nurse me back to health. The irony was suffocating.

A few weeks later, I was released, confined to a wheelchair while my leg healed. Dante moved me to a secure penthouse, a fortress in the sky. Ethan, undeterred, staged his next grand performance. At a charity gala we were meant to co-chair, he appeared on stage alone.

"My wife, Seraphina, is recovering from a terrible accident," he announced to the crowd of city elites. "And I realize now, more than ever, that life is too short to wait for the perfect moment." He pulled out a velvet box. Inside was a diamond ring the size of a small planet. "I know we've been married for years, but I want to ask her again, in front of all of you, to be my wife, forever."

The crowd applauded. The media ate it up. It was a beautiful, romantic gesture from a powerful man deeply in love.

He came to the penthouse later that night, holding the ring. He got down on one knee beside my wheelchair, his expression earnest, his eyes pleading.

"Sera," he whispered, his voice thick with manufactured emotion. "I know I haven't been the husband you deserve. But I love you. I can't live without you. Marry me again. Let's start over."

I looked down at him, at this stranger kneeling before me. I looked at the ridiculously large diamond, a symbol of his ridiculously large lies. I thought of the fall, of the cold wind, of his voice in my memory, sentencing me to death.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt something other than coldness. It was a profound, weary contempt. He wasn't a king. He was a clown. And his circus was finally over.

I didn't even give him the dignity of a response. I just wheeled myself away, leaving him kneeling alone in the center of the room, holding his hollow proposal.