Chapter 5

Three days left.

I made it home before Dante called.

“Are you calmer?”

I pressed a clean towel to my knee.

“Sofia's three, Elena. You can't hold this against her.”

“I'm not.”

“What you said—”

“What you let happen.”

Silence.

Then, carefully, “I've got a business dinner tonight. The children will stay with Vivienne. It's better if we give you some space.”

I looked at the two small cups drying beside the sink. One belonged to Sofia. The other was a spare for playdates.

I'd never bought a cup for my son.

“Fine.”

He waited, apparently expecting me to fight for the privilege of being rejected again.

I ended the call.

Then I called Julian Mercer in Boston.

We'd built a practice together before I'd married Dante. He'd warned me that a man who thought love meant ownership wouldn't make an exception for me forever.

I'd accused him of judging a man he didn't really know.

Now I stared at his name until the screen dimmed.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“Elena?”

“I need to come back.”

A pause.

“To the firm?”

“If you'll have me.”

“I always wanted you back. Are you asking for work or a way out?”

“Both.”

He didn't say he had warned me.

“I'll make room. But we build something sustainable this time. No disappearing because your husband decides he needs you more.”

“My divorce hearing is in three days.”

“And the children?”

I looked at the towel. “They don't want me.”

“That wasn't what I asked.”

“I can't keep doing this, Julian. I can't stay here and be destroyed in front of them.”

“You can leave the house without deciding the rest of your life tonight.”

I pressed my free hand to my mouth.

“Just get me somewhere I can think.”

“All right.”

He arranged an appointment for my knee, a confidential place to stay in Boston, and a return to work that began with a desk rather than a trial date.

For the first time in months, a man offered me help without telling me what I ought to feel in exchange.

I went to the little apartment I'd owned before the wedding.

It smelled of dust and rain trapped in old window frames. There was a crack above the sofa that I'd once meant to fix.

Dante arriving at midnight, knocking instead of letting himself in. Asking if I had time for him.

Once, he had asked.

I spent the next two days there, packing documents and forwarding records to Julian. I checked in with my therapist. My attorney confirmed that the settlement had been filed and the final hearing remained on the calendar.

Dante sent messages. Dinner invitations. A photograph of the ocean from the island he'd bought me.

I didn't reply.

On the third afternoon, my lawyer called.

“The judge entered the decree.”

I sat down on the floor.

For months, freedom had been paperwork, deadlines, something to prepare for. Now it was a quiet apartment and a voice telling me I didn't need his permission anymore.

Julian would collect me in the morning. I lay on the sofa, intending to close my eyes for ten minutes.

I dreamed of a courtroom. Then Sofia as a baby, her damp little mouth pressed to my cheek.

A sharp chemical smell woke me.

Smoke filled the room.

I tried to sit up. My arms wouldn't hold me. Beside the sofa, broken glass glittered in a wet patch on the floor.

Someone had been inside.

The realization cut through the fog before my body could follow it.

I slid off the sofa and hit my injured knee. Pain helped me focus. I pulled my sleeve over my face and dragged myself toward the door.

My phone was still in my pocket. I couldn't make my fingers open the keypad properly, but the voice recorder I'd been using for legal notes was on the first screen.

I pressed it.

At the doorway, a hand closed around my hair.

“She's awake. You said she'd be out.”

A man's breath struck my ear.

I drove my nails into his wrist. He swore and loosened his grip just enough for me to twist beneath his arm.

I fell into the stairwell, caught the railing, and kept moving.

Behind me, another voice shouted, “Get her! Laurent wants this finished tonight. Bennett's already taken care of it. They're calling it an accident.”

Dante.

For a second, I almost stopped.

I knew better than to treat a hired man's claim as proof. But terror doesn't wait for corroboration. My husband had given away my son and watched his bodyguards shove me to the ground. How was I supposed to know where his limits were now?

I stumbled down the final flight and into cold air.

Something blew behind me. Glass burst outward from the building. I fell against the planter by the entrance with one shoe missing and blood in my mouth.

A security guard ran toward me.

I pointed at the stairs.

“People inside. Call the fire department.”

He pulled me behind the gatehouse. I looked at my phone. The recording was still running.

I stopped it, sent it to Julian, then called him.

“Someone set fire to my apartment. They were waiting for me at the door.”

“Where are you?”

I gave him the address.

“They named Vivienne. They said Dante had cleared it.”

“Did you hear Dante?”

“No.” My teeth were chattering. “I have their voices. I've sent you the recording.”

“Stay with the guard. Help is coming.”

Across the courtyard, a man stepped out of the smoke and began looking around.

I ducked below the window.

“Send lawyers,” I whispered. “People with no ties to him.”

“Elena—”

“And get a helicopter cleared as soon as the doctors say I can travel.”

I watched the man turn toward the gatehouse.

“I'm leaving this city tonight. I don't want Dante to know where I'm going.”