Chapter 4

Seraphina POV:

The moment Ethan was stable, he left the hospital. Not to see me, not to thank me for the blood that was literally keeping his heart beating, but to go straight to Isabella's side. I knew this because he didn't even try to hide it. His actions were a declaration: she was his priority. I was his utility.

A few days later, a delivery arrived at my hotel suite. It was a brand-new Maserati, blood-red, with a ridiculously large bow on the hood. The card simply said, "For my wife." It was a shallow, insulting attempt to smooth things over, to buy my forgiveness with a luxury car. I told the concierge to have it towed.

I was in the final stages of my departure. My new identity was ready, my assets secured in untraceable accounts. I was a ghost in waiting. I moved through the hotel suite, a place that had never been a home, with a detached calm. My heart was no longer involved; this was purely a matter of strategy.

Then, the news broke. Isabella Ricci had been kidnapped.

It was everywhere, a media frenzy. The Don's beautiful, pregnant mistress, snatched from her hotel. Ethan was a wreck, publicly tearing the city apart, calling in every favor, threatening every rival. He funneled all the Costello resources-men, money, attention-into finding her. My own move, the final, quiet step of my escape, was completely overshadowed. It was all about her. Again.

The night after the news broke, I was leaving a final meeting with my lawyer. As I walked to my car in the quiet parking garage, a dark sedan screeched around the corner, its headlights blinding me. It swerved, tires screaming, and clipped my side, sending me sprawling onto the concrete. My head connected with the ground with a sickening crack. Pain exploded behind my eyes. The car didn't stop. It sped off into the night.

It felt... intentional. The timing was too perfect. An accident that wasn't an accident. A warning.

The next day, Ethan held a press conference. I watched it from my hotel room, an ice pack pressed to the growing bruise on my temple. He stood at a podium, his face grim, a picture of a distraught leader.

"I know who is responsible for this," he said, his voice ringing with false authority. "This is a message to me, through a woman I care for. But let me be clear." He leaned into the microphone, his eyes finding the camera. "There is only one woman who holds the title of Mrs. Costello. Only one woman who has my heart, my loyalty, my protection. And that is my wife, Seraphina."

He went on, spewing a river of lies about his undying love for me, dismissing Isabella as an insignificant acquaintance. He was publicly, brutally, cutting her loose.

But I knew what he was really doing. It wasn't a declaration of love for me. It was a strategy. By painting me as his one true love, he was painting a target on my back. He was telling his enemies-the real ones, the ones who had actually ambushed him months ago-'Here she is. The thing I value most. Come and get her.'

He was using me as bait.

He was sacrificing me to draw out his enemies so he could get Isabella back.

A cold dread settled in my stomach. The car in the garage last night. The sudden, public declaration of love after a year of public neglect. The kidnapping. They weren't separate events. They were a pattern. A calculated, ruthless plan that put my life on the line for the sake of his mistress.

He wasn't just a user. He wasn't just a monster. He was my executioner, and he was smiling while he sharpened the axe. My phone rang. It was his number. I stared at it, the screen glowing in the dim room. He was calling to see if the bait was taking. To see if his loving, loyal wife was ready to play her part in his sick little drama.

I let it ring until it went to voicemail, the sound echoing the hollow space where my heart used to be.