Chapter 3

The clinic staff had dressed my burns and administered heavy painkillers, causing the sharp edges of the room to bleed into one another, the overhead lights smearing into soft, hazy coronas.

Matteo never came.

Instead, a text message lit up my phone: She threatened to stop eating. Had to stay. Go home. I love you.

I didn't reply. I simply deleted it.

I returned to the De Luca Estate, the massive iron gates groaning shut behind me with the heavy clang of a vault door.

The house was not quiet; it was unnervingly still. The only sound was the low, electric hum of the wine refrigerator from the pantry, a constant, monotonous thrum against the silence.

I ascended the grand staircase, my hand dragging heavily along the cold marble banister.

My only goal was the master bedroom. I needed to peel off this ruined dress and sleep for a week.

But the door stood ajar.

Inside, chaos reigned. Boxes were stacked everywhere.

Bianca was in the center of the room, directing two maids who looked absolutely petrified.

"Put those in the attic," she commanded, pointing a manicured finger at a stack of my belongings.

My ballet slippers.

My old practice tutus.

The framed photos of my performances in Moscow.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice raspy from smoke and exhaustion.

Bianca spun around.

She was wearing one of Matteo's crisp white shirts, the hem brushing her thighs.

"Oh, Sera," she cooed, her eyes wide with feigned innocence.

"Didn't Matteo tell you?"

"Tell me what?" I stepped fully into the room, my heart hammering a painful, unsteady rhythm against my ribs.

"The plumbing in the guest wing burst," she explained lightly.

"It's flooded. Simply unlivable."

She smoothed the front of Matteo's shirt.

"Matteo said I should take the master suite until it's fixed. He said you wouldn't mind moving to the guest room down the hall."

She paused, her smile turning sharp.

"Since... well... since you two are separated anyway."

She gestured dismissively to the signed divorce papers resting on the nightstand.

Rage, hot and white, finally pierced through the narcotic numbness of the painkillers.

"Get out," I said.

She smiled, a small, cruel curving of her lips that Matteo never saw.

"He doesn't love you, Sera," she whispered, stepping into my personal space.

"He only married you for the alliance. He stays with me because of the bond. The blood."

Her gaze drifted over my bandages.

"You're just the placeholder."

She picked up a framed photo of Matteo and me from our wedding day.

She held it for a second, then let her fingers open.

The glass did not simply shatter; it exploded on the hardwood floor with a violent, percussive crack.

"Oops," she said, not looking down.

"PTSD tremors. So clumsy of me."

I lunged for her.

I didn't think. The adrenaline overrode the pain.

I just wanted to wipe that smirk off her face.

I grabbed her arm.

She screamed, a piercing, blood-curdling sound that echoed through the entire house.

"Get off me!" she shrieked.

Then, she shoved me.

Hard.

I was standing at the very top of the landing, near the open door.

My heels caught on the edge of the Persian rug.

I tipped backward.

Time seemed to thicken, stretching into an agonizing, viscous crawl. I saw the crystal facets of the chandelier above me, glittering like a thousand indifferent eyes. I saw Bianca's face, the muscles around her mouth twitching in a grotesque spasm of triumph. And then I saw Matteo, sprinting down the hallway, his eyes locking onto mine just as gravity took hold.

"Matteo!" I screamed.

But he was too far away.

I hit the first step.

Then the second.

Bone met marble with a wet, sickening crunch.

The ceiling and the floor became a violent, tumbling kaleidoscope of pain and color as I was thrown down the long, curving staircase, my body a broken doll slamming against the unforgiving stone.

When I finally landed at the bottom, a profound stillness rushed in.

I couldn't feel my legs.

I stared up at the ceiling, a single tear escaping the corner of my eye.

Matteo was kneeling beside me instantly, his hands hovering over my broken body, his face pale as death.

"Sera! Oh god, Sera!"

From the top of the stairs, Bianca began to scream hysterically.

"He hit me! The kidnapper hit me! Get away!"

She was acting out a flashback.

Matteo looked up at her, torn between the woman screaming above and his broken wife below.

Then he looked down at me.

And in his eyes, I saw it.

The hesitation.

That split second of indecision did more damage to me than the fall itself; it was the final, crushing blow that severed my spine where the marble had only managed to crack it. This would be the last time.