Chapter 5

The fever broke on the second day.

I woke in a private room at Mount Sinai, throat parched, limbs heavy as wet sand.

Liz was curled up in the chair beside me, dark circles carved deep beneath her eyes.

"You collapsed on the street." Her fingers tightened around my hand. "God, Helia, you scared me half to death."

I didn't remember how I got back. Only the rain. Only the word "pregnant" detonating in my mind.

By the time I finally returned to the Maynard estate, dusk had swallowed the grounds.

And Orion was waiting at the door.

He stood under the porch light, collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms—not like he'd just rushed back from somewhere, but like he'd been standing there for a long time. His gaze swept over me, taking in my pallid face.

"Where the hell have you been?" His voice was low, softer than anything I'd heard from him in months.

I stared at him. "The hospital."

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He stepped closer, and for one heartbeat-Loss moment, his hand rose toward my cheek—then dropped.

"You should have called me."

Called you? The words clawed at my throat. Called the man who'd been keeping Sabrina warm for weeks? Called the man playing backdrop in her Instagram photos?

But that familiar tenderness—God, it was cruel. It dragged me back to before, when he would trap me in dark hallways, lips pressed to my temple. When he would murmur "tesoro" against my pulse like I was something precious.

Before I could stop myself, the question spilled out.

"Do you remember Iceland?"

Orion went still.

"The northern lights." My voice cracked. "You promised that once things settled down, you'd take me to see the most beautiful light in the world."

Silence stretched taut between us.

Something unguarded flickered across his face—there and gone. Then the mask slid back into place.

"Sabrina needs care right now." His tone was flat, mechanical. "Her condition is delicate."

The last ember in my chest went out.

Of course. Even now—discharge papers crumpled in my pocket, two days of fever still clinging to my bones—I still came second.

I would always come second.

"I understand," I said quietly.

His brow furrowed. "Helia—"

"I said I understand." I walked past him into the house. He didn't stop me.

That night, I dismantled our marriage piece by piece.

First, the jewelry box—earrings from our first anniversary, a bracelet from some forgotten birthday. I lined them up on the vanity like evidence on a courtroom table. Then the photographs—us at a charity gala where he'd danced one song with me before disappearing into smoke-filled back rooms; our wedding day, his smile stiff while I beamed like a fool who believed in fairy tales.

My fingers found the sapphire necklace last.

I held it up to the light, watching blue fire dance across the facets. On my twenty-second birthday, Orion had fastened it around my neck himself. His breath warm against my ear, his body solid behind mine.

"Sapphires mean forever," he'd whispered. "I'll protect you always, piccola. Always."

I set the necklace on the nightstand beside the divorce papers. Let him find them together. Let him taste what it felt like to be left behind, for once in his life.

When the clock struck two, I heard movement in the hallway.

Heavy footsteps, uneven. The sharp clink of crystal against wood.

I was pulling the last of my clothes from the closet when the bedroom door swung open.

Orion filled the doorframe. Tie loose, hair disheveled, reeking of bourbon. In the half-light, his gaze found me, unfocused and hazy.

"What are you doing?"

I kept folding, didn't look up.

Three swaying steps and he was in front of me. His hand closed around my wrist and yanked—my shoulder blades hit the wall, his body pressing close, pinning me in place.

Through his shirt, I could count every beat of his heart. Heat poured off his skin, bourbon and his own scent mingling into something achingly familiar.

"You can't leave." The words slurred, desperate. "You can't leave me."

His forehead dropped against mine, stubble scraping my skin. One hand braced on the wall beside my head, the other sliding to my hip, thumb pressing into the hollow there.

For one terrifying moment, I wanted to melt into him. Wanted to pretend this was real—that he had come for me, gotten drunk for me, lost control for me.

His lips brushed the corner of my mouth.

"Stay," he murmured. "I need you to stay... Sabrina—"

That name shattered everything.

I shoved him hard. He stumbled back, confusion written across his face.

Then I saw his eyes. He didn't know. Didn't know whose name had slipped out while he held me.

"Open your eyes." My voice was already breaking apart. "Look at me, Orion. Who am I?"

He blinked, swayed. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

I stepped around him and walked out of the bedroom.

Tears broke free in the hallway—silent, scalding. I pressed my palm hard over my mouth and kept walking.

Past the portraits of Maynard ancestors. Past the study where I'd tricked him into signing the end of us. Past the foyer where I once believed I could belong.

At dawn, I stood in the driveway with a single suitcase.

Michael was already there, arms crossed, leaning against a black sedan. He asked no questions—just gave me a slow nod, something close to respect in his eyes.

"Take care of yourself out there," he said quietly.

"Take care of him." I didn't know why I said it. "He's going to need someone watching his back."

Michael's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. Just opened the car door.

The mansion loomed behind me, all stone and shadow and old money. I slid into the back seat, eyes fixed forward as the gates swung open.

The car pulled onto the main road. Manhattan's skyline emerged through the windshield, soft-edged in the morning haze.

JFK. The terminal was nearly empty. The moment I handed over my boarding pass, something inside me snapped. Quietly. Completely. Like a wire stretched for four years finally giving way.

The sunflower beneath my collarbone pulsed with each heartbeat. I pressed my palm against it—feeling the raised edges, the new scar tissue.

Goodbye to photographs where only one person was smiling.

Goodbye to a mansion that never felt like home.

Goodbye to a husband who never showed up.

Goodbye to eight years of misplaced devotion.

The plane climbed, breaking through the clouds. Sunlight flooded in, warming my face.

Tears slipped down my cheeks. Not from grief.

For the first time in four years, I felt like I could breathe.