Chapter 8

The penthouse was silent, the air stagnant and cold. It didn't just feel like a tomb; it was one.

I moved through the rooms with a heavy-duty trash bag in one hand, stripping the space of my existence. I didn't pack clothes. I didn't pack jewelry. I packed the truth.

I cleared out my toiletries, sweeping expensive creams into the black plastic abyss. I cleared out the books on my nightstand. I took the framed photo of us from the mantle-captured in a lie of a moment-and dropped it face down in the bin.

The electronic lock chirped.

Dante walked in. He looked shattered, his tie loosened, his eyes rimmed with red. He smelled like hospital soap and the sharp, metallic tang of betrayal.

He stopped dead when he saw the empty shelves.

"Elena?" Panic fractured his voice. "What are you doing?"

I turned to him. I smiled. It was a mask of porcelain, cold and fragile-the hardest thing I had ever constructed.

"I'm packing," I said, keeping my tone light, airy. "For the honeymoon. You said we were going to the Amalfi Coast right after the reception. I sent my bags ahead to the plane."

His shoulders collapsed with relief. He let out a breath he must have been holding for hours, the tension draining out of him like water.

"Right," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "Of course. God, you scared me."

He walked over and wrapped his arms around me. I stood stiff against his chest, my skin crawling.

"Is everything okay with... Luca?" I asked.

He stiffened imperceptibly. "Yeah. He's stable. It was a close call."

_Liar._

"I'm going to stay at my parents' house tonight," I said, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. "Tradition. Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding."

He kissed my forehead. I held my breath so I wouldn't inhale the scent of his deceit.

"I love you, Elena," he said. "Tomorrow is going to be perfect."

"I love the idea of us," I said softly. And it wasn't a lie. I loved the fiction of it. The reality, however, was rotting from the inside out.

I walked out the door and never looked back.

I didn't go to my parents' house.

I went to the private airfield on the outskirts of the city, where the darkness felt safer than the light.

Enzo was waiting on the tarmac. The wind whipped his trench coat around his legs, a dark silhouette against the grey sky. The engines of the jet were already screaming, a high-pitched whine eager for flight.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and pulled out my laptop.

I opened my manuscript. The romance novel I had been writing for two years. The one with thousands of followers online who thought it was pure fiction.

I uploaded the final chapter.

Title: _The Heroine Leaves the Traitor._

Content: A brutal, play-by-play autopsy of a fiancé leaving his bride on the side of the road for a mistress who faked a pregnancy.

I hit _Publish_.

I closed the laptop, the sound sharp like a gunshot. I handed it to one of Enzo's guards.

"Burn it," I said.

I walked up the stairs. Enzo took my hand. His grip was firm, possessive, anchoring me.

"Ready?" he asked.

I looked back at the city lights one last time, watching the world I used to know fade into the distance.

"Burn it all down," I said.