Chapter 3

Elana POV

Recovery is a slow, boring hell.

I was stuck in the hospital bed, my fingers trembling as I scrolled through a phone Ayla had smuggled in for me. My official phone was monitored by Emilio's men, tapped and tracked to ensure I remained the perfect, oblivious wife.

But this one was a burner. Untraceable.

I typed in the name Ayla had whispered to me earlier.

Hayden Cleveland.

Her profile was public. Of course it was. She wanted to be seen.

The first photo was from yesterday. It was a picture of a man's hand holding a child's hand.

I knew that hand.

I knew the jagged white scar on the thumb from a knife fight in 2018. I knew the heavy gold Rolex; I had bought it for him for our second anniversary.

The caption read: Finally whole. FamilyFirst.

Bile rose in my throat, but I forced myself to keep looking. I scrolled down. There were photos going back five years.

Vacations in Aspen. Weekends in Miami. Dates stamped on the photos like evidence in a crime scene.

I opened my calendar app, cross-referencing the dates with a sickening precision.

January 14th, 2020. Aspen. Emilio had told me he was in a sit-down with the Russian mob in Chicago.

August 5th, 2021. Miami. He said he was handling a shipment at the docks.

He wasn't working. He was playing house.

He was building a shadow family while I sat alone in our empty mansion, waiting for him to come home so I could warm his dinner.

Then I saw it. In a photo dated three years ago, wrapped around her wrist.

The Thomas family filigree bracelet. The one meant for the Don's wife. The one he claimed was being "cleaned" at the jeweler's.

Ayla sat in the chair next to me, pretending to read a magazine, but her eyes were fixed on my face.

"Did you know?" I asked.

Ayla looked up. She saw the screen, and her expression tightened.

"I heard rumors," she said softly. "About a mistress. Not about the kid. Not until the gala."

"He told me it was too dangerous to have children," I said, my voice sounding hollow, like it belonged to a ghost. "He said his enemies would use them against him."

"He lied," Ayla said.

"He protected Leo," I whispered, the realization settling over me like a shroud. "He kept them hidden. He kept them safe."

"And he put you on display," Ayla finished.

I was the facade. The beautiful, talented wife to show the world that Emilio Thomas was a legitimate businessman. I was the shield.

Hayden and Leo were the heart.

Rage is usually hot. But this wasn't rage. This was ice. It was a cold, numbing realization that my entire adult life was a fiction.

The door opened.

Emilio walked in, looking every bit the doting husband. He was holding a box of chocolates.

"I thought you might want something sweet," he said.

He looked guilty. Or perhaps just inconveniently burdened.

Good.

"When did you give her the bracelet?" I asked.

I didn't look at the chocolates. I kept my eyes locked on his tie.

Emilio froze. "Elana, please. Not now."

"When?"

"Three years ago," he muttered, avoiding my gaze. "It was her birthday. I didn't have anything else prepared."

He gave my heritage away because he was too lazy to shop for his mistress.

"Get out," I said.

"Elana, I'm your husband. I'm the Don. You don't order me-"

"I said get out!" I screamed.

I grabbed the heavy crystal water pitcher from the bedside table and threw it with every ounce of strength I had left.

It smashed against the wall next to his head, showering him in glass and water.

Emilio looked shocked, flinching back as if I had pulled a gun.

I never raised my voice. I never threw things. I was the calm one. The Omertà.

"We are done, Emilio," I said, my chest heaving. "I am not your wife anymore. I am just a liability."

He stepped forward, his shock hardening into arrogance. "You are mine. You will always be mine. You don't get to leave the family."

"Watch me," I hissed.

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he straightened his wet jacket, regaining his composure.

"You're hysterical," he said coldly. "Hormones. We will discuss this when you are rational."

He walked out.

He thought he still controlled me. He thought I was still the girl who abandoned her architecture scholarship in Zurich to marry the bad boy.

He was wrong.

That girl died on the casino floor.

I looked at the trash can where the roses were rotting. I picked up the box of chocolates and dropped them into the bin with a dull thud.

Then I looked at Ayla.

"I need to die," I said.

Ayla didn't blink. She didn't ask why. She didn't try to talk me out of it.

"Okay," she said, closing her magazine. "How do we do it?"