Chapter 9

I wouldn't leave like a dog with its tail between its legs—but my farewell would be nothing like the sentimental ending they expected.

Before boarding the jet back to Sicily, I had one last stop to make.

One final thread to cut, cleanly and coldly.

Closure didn't need tears. It could be sharp. Icy. Silent.

And that's exactly how I intended it.

Celia.

She was still in the private medical center under family control—"recovering," or so they said.

But I doubted it.

Knowing her, her pain was seven parts performance, three parts strategy.

She always knew how to bend the truth just enough to trigger sympathy—and protection.

The carpeted corridor muffled every sound except the rhythm of my heels—a metronome counting down to a funeral.

Each step reminded me how close I was to freedom.

In my hand, I carried a bouquet wrapped in black metallic paper—deep crimson roses so dark they looked almost black.

Black roses.

Perfect.

They symbolized the death not of flesh, but of bonds, illusions, every lie that once called itself us.

At the door to her suite, I paused.

The soundproof door was ajar.

Through the narrow gap, the truth revealed itself—and erased my last trace of doubt.

Celia wasn't bedridden, frail, or hooked up to any monitor.

On the contrary—she stood barefoot on a Persian rug, humming an aria, swaying gracefully to her own rhythm. The silk hospital robe slipped artfully from one shoulder.

A satisfied smile played on her lips.

She was dancing.

Celebrating her victory.

My mouth curved into an icy smile.

I raised my hand and knocked—once, sharply—then pushed the door open.

She spun around, surprise flashing across her face before it hardened into hostility.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, voice sharp with guarded tension.

I stepped inside the suite—five-star luxury disguised as recovery—and said calmly,

"I came to bring you flowers."

I held out the bouquet. The velvet petals glimmered darkly in the dim light.

"I heard you've been suffering," I said softly, each word edged with frost. "But it seems you're recovering … remarkably well."

Her gaze flicked down, narrowing at the flowers. "Black roses? How fitting. So very you."

"I thought they suited the occasion," I replied, smiling faintly. "And your little one-woman show."

Her lips twisted into a mocking smirk. "You're insane."

"No," I took a step closer, closing the distance between us. "I've simply opened my eyes. I used to think I was fighting for attention. Now I know—you're the one who's always hungry, always taking."

She folded her arms, the robe slipping lower with the movement, her pose taunting.

"So what? They love me. You just can't stand that."

There she is.

Simple. Arrogant. Cruel.

"You're jealous of me," she declared, as if reciting a fact of nature.

"Maybe once," I admitted without flinching. "But not anymore. I didn't come here to argue, Celia. I came to say goodbye."

Her brows drew together. "Goodbye?"

"They're all yours now," I said, my tone flat, reciting names like obsolete assets. "Tad, Leo, the little alliance you built together. I've let it go. I have … a new place to belong."

She burst into laughter—shrill, theatrical, cutting through the air like broken glass.

"Wait … you're getting married? You?"

Her voice dripped poison.

"Who would want you? You're cold, impossible, selfish. No one can stand you. You're not built for marriage, Nancy—you're a burden."

I smiled—a quiet, restrained smile that burned brighter than anger.

"Maybe I am," I said evenly. "But at least I'm an heir. I have a name that opens doors. I have a family—a real one. A home that's mine, not one earned by begging or pretending to be weak."

Her face drained of color.

"And," I stepped closer still, until our breaths collided—my chill against her sweetness—

"everything you have now—this room, their blind protection, your comfortable little stage—exists because of me. I pulled you out of the gutter. I gave you the DeLuca name. Without me, you'd have been forgotten, crushed. And you repaid me by trying to be me."

Her lips parted, but I was done listening.

I tossed the heavy bouquet into her arms.

"Get well soon," I said coolly, then turned to leave.

Right on cue, her sobs erupted behind me—pitched, deliberate, perfect for an audience that wasn't there.

She'd always been skilled at this: turning tears into armor, whimpers into weapons.

I didn't look back.

I walked out, down the long corridor, leaving behind every lie and betrayal that had once held me hostage.

Ready to breathe air untainted by deceit.

But fate wasn't finished yet.

From the far end came the echo of familiar footsteps—heavy, urgent, angry.

Leo. And Tad.

Always on time.

"Nancy!" Leo's shout tore through the hall as his hand clamped around my arm, hard enough to bruise. "What the hell did you say to her?!"

"Why is she crying like that?" Tad barked, breath ragged from running. His gaze darted from the shut door to the black roses on the floor. "Is this a joke to you? Black roses? You trying to provoke her?"

I stopped, slowly lifting my eyes to meet theirs—faces twisted by rage, confusion, defense.

Always the same.

Always standing in front of her.

Always ready to cast me as the villain.

Once again.

With steady calm, I pried Leo's fingers off my arm, one by one.

"Nothing that matters," I said, voice flat and deathly calm.

Then I smiled.

A smile they'd never seen before—one that made them recoil.

"I wish you both … a slow, rotting eternity in hell."

Tad's face darkened instantly, as dark as the sea before a storm.

"You don't mean that."

"Every word comes from the heart." My voice was cold—cold as the permafrost of Siberia.

"You've lost control," he snapped. "You think this is normal? Cursing someone to die out of spite?"

I turned to leave.

Everything that needed to be said had been said. There was nothing left worth staying for.

"Apologize to her," he suddenly ordered, his tone sharp and absolute. "Now."

I paused, a faint, bitter laugh slipping past my lips.

"Why? Because I finally told the truth?"

"You made her cry again! You always do this—twist everything into a damn spectacle just to make yourself feel better!"

I didn't answer. I simply kept walking, each step heavy and burning, as though I were treading on hot coals.

Then—he grabbed me.

His hand clamped down on my arm, hard, with that same domineering force that never tolerated defiance.

"Let go." I struggled, jerking against his grip.

"No. We're not done."

His hold tightened, crushing, as if he meant to break the bones beneath his fingers. He yanked me back violently. My heart pounded in my chest, frantic and caged like a trapped animal.

"Tad, let me go!"

But he didn't.

When he thought he had control, he never knew when to stop.

I twisted my wrist sharply, using every bit of close-combat training I had—but he held fast.

So I did the only thing left—I ran.

With a desperate surge, I tore free, shoved him off, and bolted down the carpeted hallway.

I didn't care where I was running. I just needed to get away—from him, from all of them.

But fate, cruel as ever, decided to play its part—

I shouldn't have worn heels.

The thin stiletto heel snagged at the top of the stairs.

The world spun violently.

Gravity became a merciless hand, yanking me down the steps with brutal force.

Then—blackness swallowed everything.