Chapter 6

I turned around, doubled back to the twelfth floor, and slipped through the stairwell door into the corridor. At the far end was a service elevator—I'd noticed it on moving day. It went straight down to the underground garage.

I hit B1. In the three seconds it took for the metal doors to close, I held my breath, my heart slamming against my ribs.

The elevator reached the bottom. I kept my head down, walked fast through the parking level, and ducked out the garage exit into the back alley.

I spotted it immediately—a black SUV idling in the alley, New Jersey plates, engine running.

I ran toward it.

The rear door swung open and a man in a dark suit leaned out, waving me over. "Get in, Miss Romano."

I threw myself into the back seat. The door slammed shut.

Through the rear window, I saw Dante's men burst into the lobby. I saw them clock the SUV.

Too late.

The car had already merged into traffic, swallowed by the morning rush.

"You're safe now," the man said. "Lorenzo sends his regards."

I pressed my hand against my coat pocket and felt the outline of the plane ticket Mom had bought.

A one-way ticket to Los Angeles.

No return date.

"Thank you."

As the car climbed onto the highway, I sank into the seat and let out a breath I'd been holding far too long.

I was finally out.

But the relief lasted only seconds, because I knew better than anyone—Dante Valentino was not a man who accepted loss.

To him, losing something and having it taken were two different things. The first didn't exist. The second meant war.

…

The plane took off at noon.

I watched New York shrink beneath the clouds. Three years of my life, reduced to a hazy speck outside the cabin window, and then—nothing.

A flight attendant offered champagne. I shook my head and asked for water instead.

My hands were still trembling.

I pulled out the burner phone. No contacts, no call history. A complete blank.

As if I were supposed to start over.

But my thoughts kept circling back.

Serena was never the other woman. She had always been there. She was the "rosa mia" he murmured in his sleep without realizing it, the secret hiding behind every photo of us together, the one he would choose without a moment's hesitation.

And what was I?

A placeholder. Someone to keep his bed warm until the real bride was ready.

God, I was such a fool.

I closed my eyes and dug my nails into my palms. The sharp sting barely forced the heat back behind my eyelids.

When the captain announced the descent into Los Angeles, I pressed my forehead against the window.

The glass was cold. Below lay palm trees and sunshine—a completely different world from New York's gray steel.

I was starting to believe that everything could begin again.

Mom was already waiting in the arrivals hall.

She wore a beige trench coat, her eyes red, as if she hadn't slept all night.

"Bella." The moment she saw me, her lips quivered. She crossed the distance in quick strides and pulled me into her arms. "Thank God you're safe."

I buried my face in her shoulder. In that moment, I was no longer some man's dirty little secret. I was a mother's daughter.

"Let's go." She took my backpack and led me toward the parking garage.

The car was a silver SUV. When Mom opened the rear door, I froze—someone was sitting inside.

Tall, dark hair, gold-rimmed glasses. A charcoal sport coat draped casually over his knees, shirtsleeves rolled to reveal sun-bronzed wrists. Early thirties, clean jawline.

"Bella, this is Marcus Sullivan." Mom's tone brightened a shade, carrying that distinctly maternal lilt—the one that comes with a hidden agenda. "He's the son of a colleague. An excellent architect. He happened to be in the area."

Marcus scratched the back of his head, a little awkward. "Hi, Isabella. I'm Marcus."

It took me a full second to process—this was the man Mom wanted to set me up with.

I looked at her. She gave me a slight raise of her eyebrows, an expression that said you're welcome.

"Get in, sweetheart."

I took a deep breath and slid into the back seat. Marcus shifted over to give me room.

The car started. He didn't try to make conversation, just gazed quietly out the window. No forced small talk, no rushing to fill the silence.

It was unexpectedly calming.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up in front of Mom's house. The place where I grew up.

Inside, everything was the same. The beige sofa, the childhood photos above the fireplace.

Mom made tea. We sat at the kitchen table—the same table where I'd done my homework, planned my future, and sworn up and down that I was going to be an actress.

Back when my life still made sense.

Mom cupped her tea and studied me, a thin sheen of moisture glistening in her eyes. "Bella, do you remember this table? You were ten years old when you sat right here and told me you were going to be an actress."

I nodded, my throat tight.

"And you did it." She squeezed my hand. "You've always been brave. This time is no different."

My eyes burned.

Marcus cleared his throat softly. "Mrs. Romano, I should probably get going."

"No." The word left my mouth before I could think. I looked at him. "Actually—would you mind taking a photo with me?"

He blinked, surprised, then nodded. "Of course."

I handed my phone to Mom, then stood beside Marcus and had him rest his arm on my shoulder.

Mom pressed the shutter.

In the photo, we looked natural together. Like a perfect match.

I took the phone back and pulled up the screenshots I'd been organizing—every conversation between Dante and me.

I opened Instagram, selected the chat screenshots and the photo with Marcus, and started typing.

I am announcing my permanent retirement from the entertainment industry. Thank you all for your support. Regarding the recent controversy, let me set the record straight: I am not some "crazy ex." The truth is simple—a man tried to have two women at once, and I refused.

I scrolled down, making sure every screenshot was there:

Serena's just for show. She won't change anything between us.

Give me two years. I'll divorce her. Then we can be together for real.

You're the only woman I want, Bella. The only one I love.

Then I typed one final line:

Already engaged. Mr. Valentino, please stop interfering with my life.

My finger hovered over "Post." Then I pressed it. No hesitation.

The post went live.

I turned off my phone, ejected the SIM card from my iPhone, and snapped it in half.

Then I fished the ticket stub from my coat pocket, tore it to pieces, and dropped it in the trash.

I wasn't going back.

Not to New York. Not to Dante. Not to the version of myself who had loved him like a fool.

That Isabella was dead.

Somewhere in New York, Dante's phone was probably detonating right about now.

Let it blow.

Let every lie he'd so carefully woven be dragged into the light. Let him find out what it felt like when the whole world turned against him.

I tilted my head back and watched the sunlight streaming through the window, falling across the photo on the mantle.

That little girl had been afraid of nothing.

Maybe she was still in there.