Chapter 6

Elena Vitiello POV

The first thing I registered was the flash.

It seared through the darkness-a blinding white star exploding behind my eyelids-followed immediately by the mechanical whir-click of a shutter.

I tried to lift my hand to shield my face, but my limbs felt like lead. The sedative Dante had forced down my throat was still heavy in my blood, a chemical anchor pinning me to the mattress.

"Nice of you to join the living, Mrs. Russo."

The voice was greasy, coating my skin in a layer of phantom filth. I peeled my heavy eyes open. Leo. The private investigator Dante kept on retainer for his dirtiest work was standing over me, a DSLR camera gripped in his hand.

I looked down. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of the sedative.

I was naked.

I scrambled backward, clutching the sheet up to my chin as the room spun in a nauseating tilt. This was a hotel suite. Generic art, beige walls. Not ours.

"What are you doing?" I rasped, my throat dry as sandpaper.

"Just insurance," Leo said, checking the display on his camera with a satisfied smirk. "Dante wants to make sure you remember your place. If you ever think about talking to the Feds, or filing for divorce on grounds of adultery... well, these pictures of you-high, naked, and in a hotel room with a man who isn't your husband-will hit every tabloid in New York."

My stomach turned over. Dante hadn't just drugged me to keep me quiet at the gala; he had orchestrated this. He had commissioned his own wife's humiliation.

Leo sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He reached out, his fingers brushing a lock of my hair.

"You're a pretty thing, Elena. It's a shame Dante prefers the plastic princess."

"Don't touch me." I slapped his hand away, the sudden movement sending a throb of pain through my skull.

Leo laughed, a low, ugly sound. He stood up and tossed a pile of clothes onto the bed. My clothes.

"Get dressed. You're free to go. Dante is busy celebrating."

I dressed with shaking hands, fighting the urge to vomit. I felt dirty. My skin crawled, as if Leo's lens had left a physical slime on my body.

I didn't put my underwear back on; I couldn't bear the feeling of anything touching me more than absolutely necessary.

I grabbed my purse and stumbled toward the door.

Leo called after me, his voice following me into the hall. "Check the news on your way out. You're trending."

I didn't take the main elevator. I found the service lift, squeezing myself in between a cart of dirty linens and a wide-eyed maid.

I needed air. I needed to breathe something-anything-that wasn't tainted by the Russo family.

I stumbled out into the cool night air of the back alley. The city noise was a dull roar pressing against my ears.

I walked toward the main avenue, my heels scraping harshly against the concrete. I looked up.

Times Square was glowing in the distance, but my eyes locked onto a large digital billboard on the corner of the hotel block. It was broadcasting live footage from the after-party.

There he was.

Dante Russo. My husband. The man who had vowed to honor and cherish me.

He was standing on a balcony, the city skyline glittering behind him. Sofia Moretti was in his arms. She was wearing the sapphire necklace-the one Judge Sterling had bid on.

Dante had bought it after all.

As I watched, frozen on the sidewalk like a statue, Dante leaned down. He kissed her.

It wasn't a polite peck on the cheek. It was a claim.

He kissed her with a possession that he used to reserve for me. The camera zoomed in. Sofia laughed, throwing her head back, her hand resting on his chest, right over his heart.

A crowd of people on the street stopped to watch. Someone whistled.

"Power couple," a guy next to me muttered.

I turned and retched into a trash can. Acid burned my throat, mixing with the lingering, sickly-sweet taste of the champagne Dante had forced on me.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I stood up straight.

The tears didn't come. I had cried them all in the clinic. I had cried them all in the panic room.

I took my phone out of my purse and stared at the screen. Ten missed calls from my mother's old friends, likely asking if I was okay after the trial.

I popped the SIM card slot open. I took the tiny chip and snapped it in half. I dropped the pieces into the puddle of vomit in the trash can.

Then I opened the settings and initiated a full factory reset.

I watched the progress bar fill up. When the screen went black, I dropped the phone into the trash, too.

Elena Vitiello was a liability. She was a victim. She was a woman who let men like Dante Russo break her.

I turned away from the billboard.

I walked into the dark, and for the first time in years, I didn't look back.