Chapter 4

For the first time that evening, Dante had nothing to say.

He stood holding the divorce papers, staring at me as if the situation could still be smoothed over with the right words.

"All right," he said. "I should have handled this differently."

His tone was calm and gentle. Dante was always at his most persuasive when he felt he was being generous.

"Tomorrow, I'll give you direct authority over the residence office," he offered. "No more approvals, and no more routing your personal expenses through anyone else. If you want your own discretionary account, you can have it. If you want the household staff reporting directly to you, I'll make it happen."

He watched me closely, convinced he had finally identified the root of the problem.

"And if this is about Luciana, I'll remove her from the residential accounts. The estate manager, the drivers, and the house staff will report only to you."

His tone softened even further.

"Your medical care won't be routed through anyone else again, either. I'll cover the clinic retainer myself—every doctor, every follow-up, every bill."

That pattern had worked for three years. After every humiliation, he would offer a concession. After every injury, he would hand me something new and call it protection. For a man like Dante, that was the equivalent of an apology.

At one point in time, it would have been enough.

But now, he was simply too late.

"Dante," I said, "I don't want authority over your house. I don't want your accounts, and I don't want the staff. I certainly don't want another promise that only arrives after the damage is already done." I held his gaze steadily. "I want a divorce."

The gentle facade fell away from him, piece by piece.

He stared at me, waiting for me to back down. When I refused, a coldness settled over his features.

"Enough," he said.

"I know you've been on edge for weeks, but you aren't making this decision with a clear head." He stepped closer, though he didn't try to touch me. "You're upset, you're exhausted, and you're turning one bad day into a permanent mistake."

There was no cruelty in his voice, which only made it more unbearable. He genuinely believed every word he was saying.

"You aren't walking out of here alone tonight," he continued. "Without my name protecting you, and without my people watching the doors, you have no idea how exposed you really are."

I remained silent.

His jaw tightened.

"I'm trying to stop you from doing something you'll regret once you've calmed down. Don't force me to lock down this floor until you come to your senses."

Everything he ever took from me was disguised as protection. He had placed another woman between me and the life that was supposed to be mine, claiming it made things easier. He had trusted that same woman over me while I was bleeding, insisting he was just trying to prevent a panic. Now, he stood between me and the door, completely mistaking control for care.

He still firmly believed that I was safest inside a cage.

I picked up my travel bag.

"Then let me regret it," I replied.

For the first time, genuine disbelief flashed across his face.

He had expected tears, anger, or bargaining. He certainly hadn't expected me to walk right past him, acting as though he no longer held the power to stop me.

But he didn't follow me.

Pride rooted him to the spot, along with his absolute certainty. Dante had spent far too long believing I couldn't possibly survive outside the life he had constructed for me.

To him, this was just another emotional overreaction—the kind that burned hot and faded quickly, ending exactly as they always did. He assumed I would come running back the moment the outside world frightened me enough.

My hand closed around the doorknob.

Behind me, I heard him take a breath, as if he might finally say something that actually mattered.

He didn't.

I opened the door and walked out.

The sound of it shutting behind me echoed through the penthouse like a gunshot.

Only then, standing alone in the silence, did Dante seem to feel the first sharp edge of something entirely unfamiliar.

He slipped a hand into his coat pocket and touched the brass lighter engraved with his initials. It was the one I had commissioned for him after he mentioned missing his father's old lighter.

His phone screen lit up.

Luciana.

*Don't go after her,* the message read. *She's upset, and she wants to force your hand.*

A second message quickly followed.

*Let her cool off. Once she sees what life looks like without you, she'll come back on her own.*

Dante stared at the screen, then closed his hand tightly around the lighter until the metal bit into his palm.

Yes, he told himself. That was all this really was.

In a day or two, I would finally understand what I had walked away from. I would return shaken, exhausted, and ready to be reasonable again.

And when I did, he would make absolutely certain I never spoke of divorce again.