Chapter 9

Elena POV

The lawyer's text came at 9:00 AM, vibrating against the marble countertop like a countdown ending.

Filings complete. The cooling-off period is waived due to the 'extenuating circumstances' clause you provided. You are legally single.

I stared at the screen, reading the words until they blurred.

Single.

The word felt lighter than air. It felt like the first breath after drowning.

I rested a hand over my lower abdomen, a protective, instinctive weight.

"We did it, little one," I whispered into the empty kitchen. "We're free."

I walked downstairs. The house was quiet, a mausoleum of bad memories. The maids were in the west wing, likely avoiding the aftermath of last night.

I had one box. Just one.

Luca walked in through the front door.

He looked like a man haunted. His eyes were bloodshot, his clothes rumpled and stale. He had spent the night guarding Sofia's apartment from an imaginary gunman.

He stopped dead when he saw me standing by the door with my luggage.

"I told you not to leave," he rasped, his voice rough with exhaustion.

"And I told you I'm going to Paris."

He walked over, rubbing his face hard, as if trying to scrub away the night. The volatile aggression from last night had faded into a dull, throbbing sort of guilt.

"I'll drive you," he said.

"I called a car."

"Cancel it," he commanded, though the bite was gone from his tone. "I'll drive you to the airport."

He wanted to assuage his guilt. He wanted to be the good husband for thirty minutes to make up for three years of hell.

I didn't have the energy to fight him. Not when I was so close to the finish line.

"Fine," I said.

The drive was silent, heavy with things unsaid.

He drove the black SUV with a strange carefulness, keeping his eyes locked on the road, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

"How long will you be gone?" he asked when we hit the highway.

"As long as it takes," I said.

"Buy whatever you want," he said, falling back on the only language he knew. "Put it on the Black Card."

"I intend to."

"Sofia was... shaken up last night," he muttered, testing the waters. "False alarm. Probably just a paparazzi."

"Probably."

He glanced at me, his brow furrowed. "You're quiet."

"I have nothing left to say, Luca."

We pulled up to the departure terminal.

He put the car in park and got out to get my luggage.

He lifted the single box. He frowned, confused by the lack of weight.

"This is it? For a week in Paris?"

"I travel light."

He set the box down on the curb. People were rushing past us, dragging rolling suitcases, hugging loved ones, a chaotic symphony of departures.

Luca stood there, awkward in the morning light, out of place among normal people.

"Call me when you land," he said.

"Okay."

He waited. He expected a kiss. A hug. A clingy goodbye.

I just looked at him.

I committed every line of his face to memory. Not because I loved him, but because I needed to remember the face of the man who almost broke me, so I would never let anyone like him near my child.

"Take care of yourself, Luca," I said.

It was the most honest thing I had ever said to him.

He smirked, that arrogant, Falcone smirk that used to make my heart race but now only made my stomach turn.

"I'm the King, Elena. I'm always fine."

He got back in the car.

He didn't look back as he drove away.

I watched the taillights disappear into the traffic, swallowed by the sea of cars.

Once he was gone, the mask dropped.

I reached into my purse, pulled out my phone, and popped the SIM card tray.

I snapped the small plastic chip in half with a satisfying crack and dropped it into the trash can next to a half-eaten bagel.

I picked up my box.

I didn't go to the check-in counter for Paris.

I turned on my heel and walked toward the private charter terminal, where a plane was waiting to take me to a place Luca Falcone couldn't find on a map.

I didn't look back.