Chapter 3

The sky was barely light when I placed the thermos of soup on the counter.

Dominic stood by the door, already dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, silver cufflinks catching the early morning glow. He picked up the thermos without a word of thanks.

"I'm flying out next week," he said, adjusting his watch. "Business in Milan. But this Saturday, clear your schedule. We'll have dinner with your parents. Finalize the wedding plans."

I didn't miss a beat.

"Don't bother."

His hand stilled on his cuff. "Excuse me?"

"They're traveling," I said. "Won't be back for a while."

For a long moment, he just looked at me—that cold, calculating gaze he used on rivals and traitors. The one that made men twice his size confess to things they hadn't done.

Then his phone buzzed, and whatever he'd been about to say died on his lips.

"We'll discuss this later," he muttered, already turning away. "Don't wait up."

The door clicked shut behind him.

I listened to the Bentley's engine fade into the distance, then picked up my phone and dialed the real estate agent.

"Monday," I said. "I'll sign the papers on Monday."

Friday arrived like a mercy killing.

My last day at Moretti Holdings. My coworkers threw together a small farewell—store-bought cake, cheap champagne, a card with too many signatures. I smiled and nodded and counted the minutes.

I was clearing out my desk when a familiar shadow fell across my cubicle.

Dominic didn't ask if I was busy. He never asked.

He simply took my elbow and steered me toward the private elevator, his grip just shy of painful.

"You're having dinner with me," he said. Not a question.

Twenty minutes later, I found myself in a private room at Carbone, white tablecloths and waiters who knew better than to make eye contact with Dominic Cavallo.

He ordered without consulting me—ribeye for him, branzino for me—then leaned back and studied my face like I was a problem he couldn't solve.

"You've been off lately."

I kept my eyes on my phone. "Have I?"

"Distant." His jaw tightened. "Cold. Who are you texting?"

"No one."

He plucked the phone from my fingers before I could react, scrolling through my messages with the entitlement of a man who owned everything he touched.

His brow furrowed.

"Your wallpaper. When did you change it?"

For eight years, my lock screen had been a photo of us—Capri, sunset, his arm slung over my shoulder. Now it was my parents' golden retriever.

I shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Something flickered behind his eyes. Something almost like uncertainty.

"I need to use the restroom," I said, and left before he could respond.

When I returned, Dominic was gone.

The lights dimmed. Somewhere across the restaurant, a woman gasped as her boyfriend dropped to one knee. Applause. Champagne corks. The whole performance.

My phone buzzed.

A text from my carrier: Happy Birthday from Verizon!

I stared at it for a long moment.

Then I grabbed my purse and walked out.

I heard her before I saw her.

"Higher, Dom! Push me higher!"

That sugar-sweet voice. Mia Chen, perched on a garden swing outside the restaurant's terrace, legs kicking like a child's while Dominic pushed her from behind.

She threw her head back, laughing—Loss of balance—Loss of control—and tumbled backward into his arms.

They froze like that. Her hands on his chest. His hands on her waist. Foreheads nearly touching.

Neither noticed me until I was standing three feet away.

Dominic's expression shuttered. "Done already?"

Mia squirmed out of his grip with exaggerated reluctance. "Oh, Natalie! You should try this, it's so much fun—" She caught herself, cheeks flushing. "I mean—Dom was just catching me, I almost fell, it wasn't—"

He silenced her with a pat on the head, his voice dropping to velvet.

"Relax, little one. You don't owe anyone explanations."

I looked past them both to the Ferris wheel glowing against the night sky.

They say if you make a wish at the top on your birthday, it comes true.

I started walking.

"Natalie, where are you going?"

I didn't answer.

Behind me, Mia's voice pitched upward with excitement. "Ooh, a Ferris wheel! Dom, please, can we?"

The attendant smiled apologetically. "Sorry, folks. Only two seats left."

Dominic didn't even glance in my direction.

He helped Mia into the carriage, one hand on the small of her back, guiding her like she was made of porcelain.

I watched them rise into the darkness, her laughter drifting down like ash.

Then I turned and walked away.

By eight o'clock, I was standing in the penthouse for the last time.

Two suitcases. One note.

Goodbye.

I left the key on the counter and closed the door behind me.

He called at eleven.

I was curled up in my childhood bedroom, listening to my parents laugh at some old sitcom downstairs. I let it ring.

He called again at midnight. At one. At two-fifteen.

I powered off my phone and slept better than I had in years.

Morning light streamed through the curtains.

Seventeen missed calls. A cascade of texts, each one more unhinged than the last:

What the hell is this supposed to mean?

So I forgot your birthday. I'll make it up to you. Stop being dramatic.

Natalie. You have one hour to come home. After that, don't bother coming back.

I checked the timestamp.

Three hours ago.

Something loosened in my chest—a knot I hadn't realized I'd been carrying for eight long years.

I opened my contacts, found his name, and pressed block.

Then I went downstairs to help my mother make breakfast.