Chapter 3

Caroline POV

Three years.

Exactly one thousand and ninety-five days of being Mrs. Blake Santos.

I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the penthouse, smoothing the silk of my emerald green gown. It was backless, dangerous, and deliberately designed to remind my husband that he possessed a woman other men would kill for.

"You look like a weapon," Bridget said from the doorway.

She was leaning against the frame, holding a glass of wine, her expression unreadable. She was the only person in this city who knew the truth about "Phoenix Designs"-the shell company I had established three months ago to funnel the funds I would need to survive.

"That's the point," I said, applying a layer of dark red lipstick that looked like dried blood. "It's our anniversary. I have to look the part."

"He doesn't deserve you," Bridget muttered, taking a sip. "You have the offshore accounts set up. The passport is in the safe deposit box. Why are we still playing house?"

"Because the score isn't zero yet," I said, meeting my own hardened gaze in the glass. "And because if I leave before I have the leverage to keep him from hunting me down, I'm dead. You know how the Santos men are with their possessions."

Possessions. That's all I was. A very expensive, well-behaved lamp placed in the corner to shine only when commanded.

"The car is downstairs," Blake's voice crackled over the intercom.

I said goodbye to Bridget and descended into the lion's den.

The restaurant was one of those hallowed institutions where the menu didn't have prices and the waiters moved with the silent discretion of assassins. We had the private balcony overlooking the Chicago skyline, the city lights glittering like scattered jewels below us.

Blake looked devastating in his tuxedo. He poured the wine himself, a rare vintage from his grandfather's cellar.

"To us," he said, raising his glass. "To stability."

Not love. Stability. Order. Control.

"To us," I echoed, the crystal clinking with a hollow, mournful sound.

"I have something for you," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a velvet box.

My heart did a traitorous little flip. Maybe... maybe he remembered. I had mentioned wanting a specific antique drafting compass I'd seen at an auction. Something that acknowledged *me*, my work, my mind-something that proved I was more than just a fixture.

Before he could open it, his phone lit up on the table.

*Ariana.*

He stared at it. I stared at him.

"Don't," I said. It was a command, not a request.

"It might be an emergency," he said, his hand hovering over the device like an addict reaching for a fix.

"It's our anniversary dinner, Blake. She is a grown woman. She has security. She has doctors. She doesn't need you right now."

The phone stopped ringing.

I let out a shaky breath. He picked up the velvet box again.

Then, a shadow fell over the table.

"Blake? Oh my god, I didn't know you were here!"

I froze. I looked up.

Ariana was standing there. She wasn't wearing a hospital gown anymore. She was wearing a silver dress that looked like liquid mercury pooling around her fragile frame.

And pinned to her chest, gleaming under the ambient lights, was a brooch.

The Santos Crest. A diamond-encrusted falcon.

The air left my lungs. It was a family heirloom. It was supposed to be given to the Don's wife. Or the Underboss's wife.

It was supposed to be mine.

Blake stood up immediately. "Ariana. What are you doing here?"

"I... I just needed to get out," she said, her eyes wide and watery, playing the victim to perfection. "The silence in my apartment... it was too loud. I felt a panic attack coming on."

She looked at me, feigning surprise. "Oh, Caroline. I'm so sorry. Am I interrupting?"

"Yes," I said.

"Nonsense," Blake said, cutting me off. He pulled out the empty chair next to him. "Sit down. You shouldn't be alone if you're spiraling."

She sat. She took his hand on the tablecloth.

I looked at the velvet box in his other hand.

"You were going to give Caroline her gift," Ariana said, smiling sweetly. "Go on. Don't let me stop you."

Blake looked at the box. Then he looked at Ariana. She looked fragile, her lower lip trembling slightly.

He looked at me. I was stone. I was the strong one. The one who didn't need saving. The one who didn't need him.

"Actually," Blake said, his voice tight. "I... I realized this isn't right for Caroline."

He turned to Ariana.

"You've had a hell of a week, Ari. You need a pick-me-up."

He opened the box.

Inside sat a pair of diamond earrings. Heavy, flawless, teardrop diamonds. They matched the necklace I had worn on our wedding day.

"Blake," I whispered, the sound barely escaping my throat.

He didn't hear me. Or he chose not to. He was handing the box to Ariana. "Happy... recovery."

Ariana gasped. "Oh, Blake. You shouldn't have. They're beautiful."

She reached out and touched his cheek, staking her claim.

I sat there, wearing my emerald armor, bleeding internally.

He hadn't just forgotten me. He had repurposed my anniversary to soothe his mistress's ego.

I stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor, shattering the polite silence.

"Where are you going?" Blake asked, finally looking at me.

"To the ladies' room," I said.

I walked away. I didn't go to the bathroom. I went to the bar, ordered a double vodka, and pulled out my phone.

*Minus fifteen points. He re-gifted my dignity to her.*

Total Score: 30.

The countdown was accelerating.