Chapter 2

I woke up. Still alone in the hospital room.

I pulled out my own IV. Discharged myself.

When I pushed open the main doors to the Donovan estate, I thought I was in the wrong house.

The medieval oil painting I’d bought at auction in Florence—gone. Replaced by tacky, bright pop art.

My favorite antique carved bench was gone, too. In its place, a cheap-looking, hot-pink velvet sofa.

“Get rid of that vase, too. It’s depressing. Cillian said everything in the house should be how I like it.”

Jenna was standing in the middle of the hall, wearing my silk robe, ordering the staff around.

And my husband, the untouchable Don, was lounging on the new sofa.

His long legs were crossed. His thumb was tracing patterns on Jenna’s slender fingers.

Maria sat across from them, holding a coffee cup, smiling from ear to ear.

Like a perfect little family.

I let out a cold laugh and walked straight past them.

My bandaged arm snagged on a sculpture in the entryway.

The laughter stopped.

Maria jumped up. A lifetime of habit. “D-Donna, you’re back. I’ll get you some dessert…”

“Sit down.”

Cillian cut her off.

“Maria, remember this. You’re not a servant in this house anymore. You’re Jenna’s mother. You will be respected.”

Maria shot me a nervous glance.

I didn’t ask for trouble. I didn’t demand to know why, my eyes red with tears, like I used to.

I ignored them all and went straight for the second-floor study.

My flight to Vienna was in two days. I had orchestra contracts to deal with.

I pushed open the study door. Cillian’s private safe was cracked open.

He was never careless. Never.

He must have been in a hurry during the fire.

I walked over, planning to lock it for him.

Then my eyes hit the top shelf. I froze.

A sonogram.

Jenna’s name was printed on it. Eight weeks pregnant.

Eight weeks…

That was my birthday.

I had cooked him a whole Sicilian dinner. All his favorites. I waited all day.

He finally came home late that night.

He glanced at his phone, didn’t even take off his coat, and rushed back out into the rain. He left me there with a table full of cold food. Alone until morning.

So that’s where he went. To Jenna’s ultrasound.

Next to the sonogram was a thick stack of receipts.

A rose estate. A private jet trip to Iceland.

And records of how he destroyed a socialite’s family overnight. Just because she insulted Jenna at a gala.

One thing after another.

All of it, his bottomless devotion to Jenna. A kind of love that was shocking. Foreign to me.

I remembered when I hurt my wrist practicing a difficult piece. I cried to him about the pain.

He just sat at his desk, his eyes like ice. “Dramatic. Go find a doctor yourself.”

I told him I wanted to see the snow in the Alps for our anniversary.

He didn't even look up. “The Donna of the Donovan family doesn’t need pointless romance. Do your duty.”

So, he knew how to be romantic.

Just not for me. Because I wasn’t Jenna.

I reached out with my left hand, pushed the evidence back inside, and shut the safe door.

“What, thinking about Finn again? Or are you writing him another love letter?”

A cold sneer from behind me.

Cillian was standing in the doorway.

His tall frame leaned against the door, jacket off, tie loose. His shirt was open at the collar, showing his collarbones, the top of his chest.

That familiar, mocking smile was on his face. He walked toward me.

For five years, it was always the same.

Every time he opened his mouth, he had to use Finn to twist the knife. Like he could only get his sick satisfaction by seeing me feel guilty, by watching me scramble to prove I was loyal to him.

The old me would have been red-faced, desperate. I would have sworn my love for him. I would have even cleaned up the messes with his discarded mistresses, just for a single smile.

But now… even breathing felt exhausting.

“Think what you want,” I said, looking down. I tried to walk past him. “If you say so, then it’s true.”

My indifference pissed him off.

As I passed, he grabbed my wrist and slammed me against the wall.

“Ugh…”

His body pressed against mine.

For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me.

But he pulled back. His casual smirk was gone, his jaw tight with a dangerous edge.

“Say that again.”

It was the sign. The one right before he exploded.

Every time he looked like that, someone was about to have a very bad day.

“Isn’t that what you said?” I looked up, meeting his furious gaze without flinching. My voice was calm. “I’m agreeing with you. Now you’re angry about that, too?”

Cillian’s dark pupils contracted.

He stared at me, his chest rising and falling. He was waiting. Waiting for me to grab his sleeve and beg. To cry and soothe him like I always did.

But I finally saw how stupid I’d been.

I was done soothing him.