Chapter 4

Orion didn't come home for two days.

His soldiers moved through the estate like shadows, reporting to Michael instead of the Don. The second-floor guest suite stayed lit until dawn—Sabrina's silhouette drifting past the curtains, her laughter carrying through the walls at hours when the house should have been silent.

I stopped wondering whose bed he slept in.

Instead, I folded silk blouses into my suitcase. Sorted documents into folders marked KEEP and BURN. Cancelled the joint credit cards one by one, watching the automated confirmations pile up in my inbox. Each notification felt like cutting another thread that bound me to this gilded prison.

Three more days until my flight lifted off and this place shrank to nothing beneath the clouds.

Liz's text came through around noon: Dinner tonight? Dante's, 7pm. No excuses.

Dante's. The restaurant where I'd sat alone on my anniversary, watching ice melt into untouched champagne for six hours while Orion took Sabrina to the philharmonic.

Some wounds demanded to be pressed.

See you there, I typed back.

The hostess recognized me. Her smile faltered—Loss of composure? Pity?—before she guided us to a corner booth.

Liz ordered prosecco and bruschetta. I pushed bread around my plate and pretended to listen to her rant about a client who'd tried to bribe her with courtside Knicks tickets.

Then I heard it.

That laugh. Low and warm and achingly familiar.

My head turned before I could stop it.

The private dining room across the hall had its doors cracked open. Through the gap, I could see them—Orion and Sabrina, surrounded by capos and their wives. The inner circle, celebrating something.

Sabrina glowed. Her hand rested on her stomach in a way that made my blood turn to ice water.

A woman in emerald silk raised her champagne flute. "To Sabrina! Honestly, pregnancy suits you already. That glow—absolutely radiant."

The word detonated in my skull.

Pregnancy.

Orion's voice carried through the gap, softer than I'd heard it in months—softer than he'd ever been with me. "She needs rest. Doctor's orders. I'll make sure she takes it easy."

"Such a protective papa already!" someone cooed.

Sabrina ducked her head, playing bashful. Her fingers traced small circles on her belly. "He's been incredible. I don't know what I'd do without him."

The room erupted in warm laughter. Orion's hand found the small of her back—steadying, possessive. Tender.

The same hand that used to pin me against walls. The same fingers that once traced the moon tattoo on my collarbone and whispered, "Mine."

My chair scraped back. Liz's voice came from somewhere far away—"Helia? Helia, what's—"—but I was already moving, already stumbling past waiters and white tablecloths, already shoving through the front door into the rain.

The sky had cracked open.

Water hit me like a fist. Within seconds my dress clung to my skin, mascara bleeding down my cheeks, hair plastered flat against my skull. I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. My heels slipped on wet pavement as I half-ran, half-staggered down the block, no destination, no direction—just away.

Pregnant.

She was carrying his child.

All those late nights. All those emergencies that pulled him from our bed. The way he looked at her—like she was something precious, something worth protecting.

My back hit brick. I slid down until my knees met soaked concrete, rain hammering my shoulders, my skull, the fresh tattoo screaming beneath my collarbone.

The sunflower. That stupid, hopeful sunflower—inked over a moon that never loved me back.

My fingers found the raised skin. Traced petals I couldn't see. Every line burned like the day the needle carved it. Like my body understood before my mind caught up.

I was never his wife.

I was a placeholder. A warm body filling space until the real thing came home.

And now she was carrying his heir.

A sound ripped from my throat—ugly, animal, swallowed by the storm. I pressed my palm flat against the tattoo, hard enough to bruise, willing the pain to drown out everything else.

You were so stupid. So goddamn stupid.

Believing his silence meant he was warming up. Believing those rare moments of softness—his thumb brushing my cheek, his arms pulling me close in the dark—meant something was growing between us.

Believing that if I just waited long enough, loved quietly enough, stayed invisible enough—

He'd finally see me.

He never saw me.

The rain didn't let up. I sat there until my legs went numb, until the cold seeped into my bones, until time dissolved into gray static.

My phone buzzed. Liz. Then again. Then a third time.

I couldn't make my fingers work.

When I finally dragged myself upright, my body felt like it belonged to someone else. The walk back to my car took twice as long. I sat behind the wheel with the engine running, heat blasting, watching water stream down the windshield like tears.

Boston. The acceptance letter. The one-way ticket.

None of it felt like enough anymore.

How do you outrun something already carved into your bones?

I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel and let the last of it fall.

Then I put the car in drive.

Three more days until wheels up.

The sunflower throbbed beneath my skin—a silent scream, a desperate prayer.

Get out. Get out while you still can.

I was done being someone's ghost.