Chapter 3

Seraphina POV:

I spent the night in the garden, curled up on a stone bench, watching the moon trace its silver path across the sky.

When dawn broke, painting the horizon in shades of grey and pale rose, I made my way back inside. Dante was still on the sofa, still murmuring Isabella's name in his sleep.

I felt no love. No hate. Just a profound, chilling calm.

I took out my ledger and wrote the final deductions. My hand didn't even shake.

Then I started to pack.

I was methodical. I cleared my side of the closet, leaving a vast, empty space. I boxed up every piece of jewelry, every dress, every pair of shoes he had ever given me. They weren't mine. They were part of the uniform-the uniform of Seraphina Rossi.

Dante woke around noon, his eyes bloodshot. He saw me taping up a box and frowned. "Are you cleaning?"

His phone rang before I could answer. Isabella. His expression softened, the hard lines of the Underboss melting away. "I'm on my way," he promised into the phone, his voice a low, intimate murmur. He grabbed his keys and rushed out, the front door slamming shut behind him.

I whispered to the empty room, "No, you won't."

He was gone for days. Isabella's social media painted a sickeningly perfect picture. He took her to a vineyard in Napa. He bought her a golden retriever puppy. He flew her to Paris for the weekend.

I used the time. I arranged for movers to ship my boxes to a storage unit in San Francisco. I closed my bank accounts. I called Bridget and told her Phoenix Architecture was a go. I methodically erased every trace of Seraphina Rossi from that house.

On the third anniversary of my mother's death, as I was preparing to walk out the door for the last time, he came back. He looked tired but strangely peaceful.

"I'll drive you," he offered, seeing the single bouquet of white roses in my hand.

At the cemetery, I knelt by the cool marble of her headstone. I told her everything, my voice a hushed confession. About the divorce. About the new firm in San Francisco. About my new life.

As we were leaving, the sky opened up. Rain fell in thick, heavy sheets. In the car, the silence was broken by the frantic ringing of Dante's phone.

Isabella.

"I was in an accident," she sobbed through the speaker. "My car... it spun out. I think my wrist is broken."

Dante's face went pale. He slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt on the side of the desolate road. He turned to me, his eyes a cold, hard void, utterly devoid of any emotion for me.

"Get out," he ordered, his voice flat. "I have to get to her."

I didn't argue. I didn't say a word. I simply opened the car door and stepped out into the pouring rain.

I watched his taillights bleed into the rain-slicked darkness, leaving me utterly alone, drenched, on the side of a highway with no one for miles.

My phone was dead. No taxis would come out this far. I started walking, the cold rain seeping into my bones.

I heard the screech of tires before I saw the headlights. A truck, losing control on the slick asphalt, hydroplaning directly towards me.

There was no time to scream.