Chapter 8

I had moved out of the penthouse.

I found a cheap, rundown apartment on the outskirts of the city-a place off the beaten path, far from his territory.

I sat on the lumpy mattress, staring at the peeling wallpaper.

My ringtone shattered the silence.

Caspian's name flashed on the cracked screen.

I answered, my tone completely flat.

"Where are you?"

It wasn't a question; it was a dark, commanding demand.

"Did you sign the lawyer's papers?" I countered.

The line went dead.

He hung up on me.

Three hours later, the flimsy wooden door to my apartment was kicked in.

The cheap wood splintered, the deadbolt shattering and scattering across the faded linoleum floor.

Caspian stepped over the broken threshold and into the cramped living room.

His towering silhouette blocked the dim light from the hallway, casting a long, dark shadow over me.

He scanned the dingy room, his upper lip curling in disgust.

He demanded, "Why is my wife living in a rat hole instead of her rightful home?"

I stood up, crossing my arms over my chest.

"I'm serious, I'm leaving you," I said coldly. "Why are you still holding on to me?"

Caspian closed the distance between us in two long strides.

"I do not want a divorce," he growled. "Saving Elena was an instinct I was trained for since childhood; it wasn't from the heart."

He stepped right into my personal space, looking down at me from above.

The heat radiating from his body washed over my skin.

Refusing to back down, I pressed my hands firmly against his solid, unyielding chest.

"Where are the papers, Caspian?" I demanded.

He ignored my question, staring deeply into my defiant eyes.

He raised his large hands and, with a gentleness that almost hurt, cupped my face.

His voice grew deep and husky, echoing in the quiet room like a command.

"Wife, come home. You belong in my bed."

I let out a harsh, mocking laugh.

His arrogance was astounding.

I grabbed his thick wrists and shoved his hands away from my face.

"We're done," I spat. "I'm sick of the bulletproof glass, the smell of disinfectant, and the gun under your pillow. Get out."

I shoved him toward the broken doorway.

He let me move him, but his dark, tempestuous eyes never left my face.

He finally stepped out into the dim hallway, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife.

I slammed the broken door shut as best as I could, leaned against it, and let out a shaky breath.

Later that night, I sat cross-legged on the floor, the glow of my laptop lighting up the dark room.

I was browsing a secure social network, checking on the family's recent activities.

A new photo popped up on my feed.

It was posted by Elena.

It was a carefully framed close-up: a steaming cup of coffee resting quietly on a polished mahogany desk.

Draped casually over the back of the heavy leather chair behind the desk was a custom-tailored black suit jacket.

I instantly recognized it as Caspian's.

It was a subtle, calculated message broadcasted to the entire underworld-hinting at her unshakeable position by his side.

I stared at the bright screen, an icy, hollow sneer forming on my lips.

I clicked the "Like" button on the photo.

Then, I typed out a comment for everyone in the Syndicate to see:

"Long live the Don and his Princess!"

I hit send, watching the text finalize on the screen.

Then, with a decisive click, I permanently blocked Elena's account.

I picked up my phone, opened my contacts, and deleted Caspian's name from the list.

Finally, I blocked the Don's number, severing my final tie to him completely.