Chapter 3

Elena Rossi POV:

At exactly two o'clock the next afternoon, I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the exclusive, members-only cafe on Fifth Avenue.

The air inside smelled of roasted espresso beans and wealth. A waiter in a crisp white shirt stepped into my path immediately, his eyes darting over my plain beige trench coat and scuffed flats.

"Excuse me, miss, this establishment is private-"

From a secluded booth in the back corner, Isabella Vitiello raised a single, manicured hand and flicked her wrist. The waiter instantly snapped his mouth shut and stepped aside, bowing his head.

I walked over to the booth and slid into the leather seat opposite her. I kept my spine perfectly straight. When the waiter approached to offer a menu, I shook my head. I didn't want anything from them.

Isabella was draped in a custom Chanel suit, her silver hair perfectly coiffed. She looked at me the way one might look at a stain on a white carpet. She didn't bother with greetings. She reached into her Birkin bag, pulled out a thick stack of legal documents, and slid them across the polished mahogany table.

"A fifty-million-dollar irrevocable trust," Isabella said, her voice dropping to a low, lethal register. "The funds are guaranteed."

I didn't look at the bold numbers on the first page. I flipped straight to the back, scanning the dense legal jargon of the stipulations.

*Party B must vacate the United States within fourteen days. Party B must sever all forms of contact with Dante Vitiello. Any breach of these terms will result in immediate forfeiture of funds and legal prosecution.*

"Fourteen days," I murmured.

Isabella picked up her bone-china teacup, her diamond rings catching the low light. "What's the matter, Elena? Not going to play the tragic, incorruptible martyr this time? I offered you a million years ago and you threw the check in my face. It seems your undying love had a price tag after all."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a cheap, plastic ballpoint pen. The logo on the side was worn off. I had bought it at the campus bookstore the day I got accepted into nursing school-the life I had abandoned to take care of her blind, broken son.

I didn't hesitate. I pressed the cheap pen to the expensive parchment and signed my name in sharp, aggressive strokes on every required line.

Isabella's teacup paused halfway to her mouth. Her eyes widened slightly, catching a flicker of genuine shock. She had expected begging. She had expected tears.

I gathered the signed copies, separated her stack, and pushed it back across the table.

"I don't want a trust," I said, my voice hard. "I want the funds wired to the offshore account listed on page four. Within twenty-four hours. Or I walk into Dante's office and tell him exactly what we discussed today."

Isabella's face darkened with rage. She leaned forward, planting her hands on the table. "If you try to play games with this family, little girl, you won't just lose the money. We will make you disappear."

I stood up, towering over her sitting form. I looked down at her perfectly powdered face.

"I wish your future daughter-in-law a long and healthy life," I said smoothly.

I turned and walked out of the cafe, leaving Isabella glaring daggers at my back.

The bright afternoon sun hit my face as I stepped onto the pavement, making me squint. I kept my pace steady, walking aimlessly down Fifth Avenue for six blocks, checking the reflection in shop windows to ensure none of Isabella's men were tailing me.

Once I was certain I was clear, I ducked down a narrow side street and slipped into a dingy, underground cybercafe. The air smelled of stale sweat and old electronics. I paid in cash, sat at a terminal in the far corner, and booted up an encrypted browser.

I logged into the offshore account I had set up months ago under a shell corporation. I hit refresh.

The screen loaded. *Pending Transfer: $50,000,000.00. Status: Clearing.*

My chest heaved. The breath I didn't know I was holding rushed out of my lungs. The money was real. The escape was real.

I logged out, wiped the terminal's history, and took the subway back to the penthouse.

When I unlocked the front door, the apartment was still empty. I shrugged off my trench coat, throwing it over the back of a chair. As I reached for a glass of water, my phone began to vibrate violently on the counter.

I picked it up. A push notification from Instagram flashed across the screen. It was an update from an account I had secretly followed from a burner profile: Sofia Moretti.

I tapped the notification.

It was a photo of a thick document bound in leather, stamped with gold foil. A prenuptial agreement. The background of the photo was the polished oak wood of Dante's office desk. The caption read: *To my forever King. Fourteen days left.*

I zoomed in on the edge of the frame. Resting casually on top of the document was a man's hand. I recognized the distinct vein patterns, the tanned skin. But more importantly, I recognized the watch on his wrist.

It was an older Patek Philippe model. It didn't match his current billionaire aesthetic. I had bought it for his birthday during our third year together, using every cent I had saved from working double shifts at the clinic before he moved me into this tower.

I stared at the watch on the screen. A slow, dark smile stretched across my face. It was a smile devoid of any warmth.

"So fourteen days isn't just my death sentence. It's your countdown to the celebration."