Chapter 3

Aliana Gibson POV:

"Why?" The question was a raw, broken thing, torn from the depths of my soul. "He was your son, Dexter. Why are you trying to erase every trace of him? Why are you trying to kill him all over again?"

Dexter stood in the doorway, his face a cold, unreadable mask. "I am trying to move forward, Aliana. Something you seem incapable of doing."

I ignored the flames licking at the edges of the fire pit, the heat searing my skin. I dropped to my knees, plunging my hands into the hot ash, desperate to salvage anything. The heat was excruciating, but the pain in my heart was infinitely worse. I pulled out the melted plastic of the toy truck, the charred remains of a storybook, my fingers blistering. These were not just things. They were the last tangible pieces of my son.

"Stop it! You'll burn yourself!" Dexter strode forward, grabbing my arm to pull me away.

I fought him, a wild, cornered animal. "Let go of me! This is all I have left!"

He swore, grabbing a nearby fire extinguisher from its wall mount. A thick cloud of white foam erupted, smothering the flames and coating the precious, ruined relics in a chemical blanket. The fire was out, but so was the last flicker of hope in my heart.

"This is a lesson, Aliana," he said, tossing the empty extinguisher aside. His voice was dangerously calm. "A lesson in letting go. The sooner you learn it, the better it will be for everyone."

I stared at him, at the man who was systematically dismantling my life, my sanity, my past. Was there anything left of the man I had married? Any love, any shared history that could be reached? Or had it all been consumed by his ambition and his obsession with Bristol?

I said nothing. I simply knelt in the mess of foam and ash, carefully gathering the scorched, broken pieces of Leo's life. I took them inside, washed them tenderly, and locked them in a small rosewood box where he could never find them again.

That afternoon, a fire was lit inside me. It was not the fire of grief, but the cold, hard fire of vengeance. Dexter wanted me to let go. Fine. I would let go. I would let go of him, of our marriage, of the company I had built. But not before I burned it all to the ground.

I needed help. I couldn't do this alone. I thought of Isaac Griffin, Dexter's biggest business rival. A venture capitalist who was sharp, principled, and had once tried to hire me, telling me that my talent was being squandered behind Dexter's shadow. He saw my value when my own husband had ceased to.

I found an old, untraceable burner phone I'd kept for emergencies. I sent him a single, encrypted message: I need to talk. I have something you want. The core source code for 'Elysium'.

"I swear, Dexter," I whispered to the empty room, clutching the small rosewood box to my chest. "I will make you pay for this. I will make you suffer as I have suffered. I will take everything from you, and I will not feel a single shred of remorse. I'll give my soul to the devil if it means I can watch you burn."

Later that day, a doctor came to treat the burns on my hands. He worked in silence, applying salve and bandages. Dexter watched from the doorway, his arms crossed.

"Bristol is feeling a little weak," he said, once the doctor had left. "She's craving your seafood paella. Go make it for her."

I looked down at my bandaged, useless hands. "Dexter, our son has been dead for less than a month."

"And? Is there a rule that says we have to starve ourselves to prove our grief?" he scoffed.

"There is a tradition, at least, of mourning," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "Of abstaining from... indulgence. From rich foods. From carnal pleasures." The last words were a pointed dart.

He ignored it. "That's sentimental nonsense. She's pregnant. She needs her nutrition."

Bristol appeared behind him, a paragon of fragile beauty. "Oh, Dexter, don't force her," she said, her voice soft and sweet. "I can just have some soup. I wouldn't want to trouble Aliana, not when she's in so much pain." Her eyes met mine over his shoulder, and they were filled with malicious glee.

"You see? She is more considerate of you than you are of her," Dexter snapped. "She is carrying my child, Aliana. The least you can do is cook her a decent meal. It is your responsibility as the lady of this house."

The fire in my chest roared to life. "No."

The word hung in the air, small but unyielding.

Dexter's face darkened. "What did you say?"

"I said, no. I will not cook for your mistress. Not today. Not ever."

His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. He took a step toward me, his voice a low growl. "You are testing my patience, Aliana."

"And you have destroyed mine," I retorted, standing my ground.

He stared at me for a long, silent moment, a storm brewing in his eyes. Then, he turned to the two bodyguards who were always stationed by the door. "Take her to the glasshouse. Lock her in. She can stay there until she reconsiders her 'responsibilities'."

My blood ran cold. The glasshouse. It was a beautiful, sun-drenched conservatory at the back of the property, filled with exotic, flowering plants from all over the world. Dexter had it built for Leo, who loved the colors and the light. But for me, it was a torture chamber. I have a severe, life-threatening allergy to pollen. I hadn't set foot in it in years.

It was my one, known vulnerability. And he was going to use it against me.

The irony was so thick, so bitter, it choked me. The beautiful sanctuary he had built for our son was now the prison he would use to punish his son's mother.