Chapter 6

I floored it, racing back to the estate.

In the garden, a dozen of Dante’s men stood in silence. They held my mother’s things—her photo albums, her hand-embroidered handkerchiefs. And in the center, propped on an easel, was a portrait of my mother. Her final painting. My entire world.

A large fire pit sat in the middle of the garden, the air thick with the sickening smell of gasoline.

And Dante stood right beside the portrait, a box of matches in his hand.

"No!" I sprinted toward the garden. "Dante! What are you doing!"

Two guards grabbed me, their grips like iron, holding me back.

"Let me go! Those are my mother's things! You have no right!" I thrashed wildly, my nails digging into their arms.

Dante turned slowly. In the moonlight, his face was a mask of cold fury.

"The security footage showed you pushed her. I gave you a chance to explain," his voice was devoid of any warmth. "But you ignored my calls. Now, you're going to pay the price for hurting Ava."

I shook my head, desperate. "No, the footage… it must have been faked! And I passed out, I was in the hospital!"

But he didn't listen. He raised his hand. "Burn it," he commanded.

"Don't! I'm begging you!" I pleaded, tears streaming down my face. For the first time in three years, I was completely broken before him.

He looked down at me, a flicker of pity in his eyes that was quickly extinguished by cold resolve. "When you pushed Ava into the sea, she was just as desperate."

The flame touched the corner of the painting.

I remembered my mother's words.

"Elara, my love, I hope you marry a man who truly loves you. Remember, someone who truly loves you will never, ever hurt you on purpose."

And now, the man I had once loved was destroying my heart in the cruelest way imaginable.

"Mama!" A raw, inhuman scream tore from my throat as I collapsed. "Mama!"

The fire consumed everything, every brushstroke, every memory. The images of my mother, of our life together, vanished before my eyes.

I cried until I couldn't breathe, my body shaking uncontrollably. It was a pain worse than any physical torture—the utter helplessness of watching your most precious treasure be annihilated.

"Put it out!"

Dante's voice suddenly cut through my grief.

His men rushed forward to extinguish the flames, but it was too late. The self-portrait was mostly gone, only a small, charred piece of the corner remaining.

I lay on the ground, sobbing like a lost child.

Perhaps the sight of my complete and utter despair got to him, because for a split second, Dante's cold mask wavered. But just as quickly, it was back in place.

"This is a warning, Elara," he said, looking down at me. "If you ever touch a hair on Ava's head again, next time it won't just be paintings."

I slowly lifted my head, my tear-filled eyes meeting his.

"Dante," I rasped, my voice shredded. "The biggest regret of my life is ever meeting you."

His pupils contracted, but he said nothing.

A sharp pain exploded in my chest, a tidal wave of grief that drowned my senses.

The world went black. I fainted on the gasoline-soaked grass.

The last thing I saw was Dante's cold, indifferent face, and the smoke still rising from the wreckage of my mother's art.

When I woke, it was the next afternoon.

I was in my bedroom at the estate. Sunlight streamed through the windows as if the nightmare of the previous night had never happened.

But then I saw it on my nightstand: the small, burnt fragment of my mother's portrait. A brutal reminder that it was all real.

A knock at the door.

"Come in," I said, my voice weak.

It was Marco, Dante's second-in-command.

He placed a file from his briefcase on the nightstand. "Mr. Moretti asked me to bring you this compensation agreement. He said that perhaps he went too far last night, and he's willing to offer some financial restitution."

"Furthermore," Marco continued, "Mr. Moretti wishes for you to be more rational and to stop harassing Miss Ava. We are all civilized people, after all. There's no need to make things so ugly."

Civilized people?

When he was setting my mother's life's work on fire, he didn't seem very civilized.

I looked at Marco's polite but cold face, and a volcano of rage erupted inside me.

"GET OUT!" I grabbed the water glass from my nightstand and threw it at him. "Take your damn agreement and get the hell out!"

The glass shattered at his feet, splashing water all over his suit.

Marco took a step back, but his expression remained placid. "Ma'am, I understand you're upset, but—"

"I SAID GET OUT!" I grabbed the papers, tore them to shreds, and threw them at him. "And you tell Dante I don't want his money! I don't want his compensation! Tell him and his little whore to stay the hell away from me!"

Marco finally turned and left.

And I collapsed back onto the bed, completely drained.