Chapter 5

I opened my eyes on a single bed in a guest room.

The room was empty. No doctor. No Maxim.

I pushed myself up.

The wound and my abdomen screamed in protest. I bit my lip, refusing to make a sound.

The hallway was silent.

I dragged myself back up to the third floor. The door yielded to my trembling hand. Chloe’s model—her beautiful, tragic masterpiece—was just jagged debris across the hardwood.

I walked slowly, then knelt on the floor.

Sharp glass dug into my knees. I couldn’t feel it.

I started digging through the broken foundation.

When Chloe built this, she’d insisted on a secret compartment inside.

We’ll hide our most precious secrets here, she’d said.

My fingers found a cracked edge.

Click.

I broke the wood panel off.

A tiny, silver USB drive fell out.

Was this… the last thing she left for me?

I fought back the sting in my nose, picked it up, and rushed to my desk, pulling out my laptop.

I plugged it in. A password-protected folder popped up.

I typed in Chloe’s birthday.

No blueprints. No photos.

Just a few videos and a dozen audio files.

I clicked the first video. A security feed.

The lighting was dim. A shady underground bar.

Isla sat on a sofa, pushing a small bag of shimmering blue powder towards Chloe.

“Try this. It’ll give you endless inspiration,” Isla smiled like a snake. “You’ve been stuck for a while, right? Just one hit, and you’ll win that award.”

I clicked the next file. An audio recording.

It was from the night Chloe died.

“Clean up every trace on the top floor. Make it look like an accidental fall from an overdose.”

It was Maxim’s voice.

Cold. Decisive.

“Wipe all the security footage. The fact that Isla was there dies with you. Seraphina can never know.”

The laptop fan whirred softly.

The cold screen light hit my face.

My breathing stopped.

Chloe didn’t fall.

She was murdered by Isla.

And my husband—the man who held me tight at the funeral, who kissed my hair and rocked me to sleep—was the one who covered it all up.

He protected the killer while I drowned in grief, thinking I was a fool.

Rage, hot as lava, burned through me.

I wanted to run downstairs.

I wanted to grab a piece of that sharp metal frame and slit both of their throats.

But I didn’t move.

I closed my eyes. Took a long, deep breath of cold air.

When I opened them again, the madness was gone. Replaced by a dead, icy calm.

Rage is a shield for the weak. What I wanted was their utter ruin.

I quickly backed up all the files, encrypted them, and sent them to Matteo, the Ricci Consigliere.

I pulled out the USB and tucked it deep into my pocket.

The doorknob turned.

I closed the laptop.

Maxim walked in, carrying a first-aid kit.

He stopped when he saw me kneeling by the wreckage. His eyes immediately fell on the horrifying patch of blood on my lower back.

For a second, I saw it. A real flicker of guilt.

“Seraphina.” He walked over, his voice soft. “Your wound…”

“It’s fine,” I said calmly, cutting him off.

No hysterics. No accusations. No tears.

I used the desk to stand up and opened a drawer.

Maxim froze.

He had clearly braced himself for my anger. This bizarre calm threw him completely off balance.

“About before…” he started, trying to explain. “Isla didn’t mean it. And I pushed you… it was just a reaction. I never thought you’d get hurt so badly.”

“I know.” I turned and looked him straight in the eye.

I even forced a smile. An understanding one.

“I get it, Maxim,” I said gently. “I was just so tired. I lost control.”

Maxim was stunned.

The guilt in his eyes magnified.

I pulled out a dark blue folder.

Matteo had delivered it an hour ago.

I pushed it in front of him.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Authorization for a charity foundation,” I said softly. “I want to donate all my personal assets to build a children’s medical center.”

I looked him in the eye and delivered the fatal bait.

“In memory of our boy.” I met his gaze, my voice fragile and sweet. “And for Isla. A blessing for her health.”

Those two names shattered his already weak defenses.

Maxim’s throat bobbed.

He looked at my pale face, and he saw a saint. A woman willing to swallow any pain for love, for family.

Guilt consumed him.

He didn’t read the fine print. He didn’t realize the “charitable trust” legally stripped him of every asset we shared. And buried underneath? A signed divorce decree.

He just pulled the pen from his suit pocket and flipped to the last page.

He signed his name without a second thought.

I looked down. I watched the ink bleed into the paper.

Three years.

Three years of lies, betrayal, and exploitation. Ended so easily by his own hand.

Maxim capped the pen.

He looked up at me.

For the first time, in those cold, cruel eyes, I saw real pain and self-loathing.

“Seraphina,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

I took the folder, sliding it smoothly back into the drawer.

My hands didn’t shake.

I met his guilty gaze and gave a small, empty smile.

“It’s okay, Maxim,” I said, looking at him. “We both need to move on.”