Chapter 3

The quarterly family dinner. Every capo, every underboss, every wife in attendance.

If I skipped it, Orion would know something was wrong. So I showed up.

I'd spent hours getting ready. The navy Valentino gown Orion chose for our second anniversary. Hair in a low chignon. The sapphire earrings Don Maynard gave me the day I officially became his daughter-in-law.

Everything had to look normal. Like nothing had changed.

The moment I stepped into the grand dining hall, I knew it was a mistake.

Sabrina sat in my chair. The seat at Orion's right hand—reserved for the Don's wife since his grandfather built this empire.

Orion leaned toward her, his mouth near her ear. She threw her head back in laughter. The capos and their wives filled the remaining seats, champagne catching the light.

My place had been shoved to the far end. Past the underbosses. Past the bookkeepers. Crammed between a consigliere's half-deaf mother and an empty chair.

I stood frozen in the doorway, heat prickling up my throat.

"Helia!" Sabrina's voice cut through the noise. "There you are, hon. I saved you a spot down there—figured you'd want some quiet after slaving away in that lab all day."

Every head turned. Some faces held pity. Most barely hid their smirks.

I made my legs move. The walk to the end of the table stretched forever, my heels striking marble like a ticking clock. I lowered myself into the chair, spine rigid.

Then the first course landed in front of me.

Oysters Rockefeller. Shrimp cocktail. A glistening tower of clams nested in crushed ice.

My lungs stopped working.

Everyone at this table knew I was deathly allergic to shellfish. It was in the household files. The kitchen had standing orders.

Orion had held my hand in the ER once, watching my throat swell shut, whispering "Stay with me, bella" until the epinephrine kicked in.

I pushed the plate back with two fingers. "I can't eat this."

Sabrina's hand fluttered to her chest. "Oh my God, it totally slipped my mind! I helped with the menu and just—" She turned to Orion, eyes huge and wet. "Baby, I feel awful. Should we have them fix her something else?"

Orion's gaze flicked to my plate for half a second. "Kitchen's backed up. She can have the bread."

Bread. Like a dog waiting for scraps under the table.

Sabrina's smile snapped back into place. "Anyway—where was I?" She dove into a story about summers in the Hamptons, dropping names that meant nothing to me.

The capos chuckled on cue. Orion's arm draped across the back of her chair, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her bare shoulder.

I sat surrounded by food that could kill me, watching another woman reign from my seat.

Something inside me turned to ice.

"Funny thing," I said, loud enough to slice through her monologue, "there's a name for women who go after other people's husbands. A few names, actually. None of them nice."

Silence crashed over the table.

Sabrina's smile locked in place. Her champagne glass froze halfway to her lips.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." I didn't blink. "Though I'll admit—it takes skill to play the homewrecker and the victim at the same time. Not everyone's got the range."

For one glorious heartbeat, her mask shattered. Her eyes went hard and flat, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jump.

Then she wobbled.

The champagne flute slipped from her fingers, shattering against the marble. She clutched her chest, gasping.

"My heart... something's wrong..."

She crumpled sideways—right into Orion's arms.

He caught her without thinking, one arm sweeping beneath her knees, the other bracing her back. "Sabrina? Hey—look at me."

Her head drooped against his shoulder. A pitiful little moan escaped her parted lips. Every move calculated, every detail perfect.

The room detonated. Wives shrieked. Capos knocked back chairs. Someone shouted for a doctor.

Orion stood with Sabrina bundled against his chest, her gown cascading over his arm like a waterfall. He turned for the door—then stopped beside my chair.

His eyes found mine. Black. Freezing. Not a trace of the man who once pinned me against the library shelves and swore he'd burn the world for me.

"You'd better pray nothing's wrong with her."

The words landed like a fist to the sternum.

Then he was gone, carrying her out, her fingers curled daintily against his jacket.

I didn't move. Couldn't move. The shattered glass. The pooling champagne. The whispers already slithering around me.

Did you see her face?

She went after Sabrina like a rabid dog...

No wonder he can't stand being near her...

I stared at the plate of shellfish. At Orion's empty chair. At the doorway swallowing him and the woman cradled in his arms.

Five more days. Just five more days.

My hand slid beneath the tablecloth, finding my phone. The flight confirmation burned on the screen—Boston, one-way, one hundred twenty hours out.

I held that number like a prayer.

Five days. Then nobody would ever seat me at the end of the table again.