Chapter 7: The Woman Who Stopped Waiting

Elena Vitiello POV

Eight days before my escape, Dante started watching me.

Not constantly.

Not openly.

Dante Moretti was too controlled for that.

But I felt it.

His gaze followed me when I crossed the dining room. His conversations paused when I entered a room. His soldiers stepped aside faster than usual, as if they had been warned that I was no longer furniture.

It should have frightened me.

Instead, it irritated me.

Three years of begging silently to be seen, and now that I was leaving, he finally decided to look.

At breakfast, he sat across from me with a newspaper he wasn't reading.

I buttered a piece of toast.

He watched my hand.

"You aren't wearing your ring," he said.

The knife stopped against the bread for half a second.

Then I continued.

"I took it off last night."

"Why?"

"It felt heavy."

His jaw shifted.

"It weighs less than an ounce."

"Some things are heavier than they look."

Silence settled between us.

Dante folded the newspaper slowly.

"Put it back on."

There it was.

Not a request.

Not concern.

Command.

I looked up at him.

"No."

The room went still.

Maria froze near the coffee service. One of the guards near the entrance lowered his eyes to the floor.

Dante stared at me as if I had spoken in a language he did not understand.

"No?"

"No," I repeated softly.

He leaned back in his chair.

The movement was smooth. Dangerous.

"Careful, Elena."

Once, those words would have made my stomach drop.

Today, I set the butter knife down and stood.

"I have been careful for three years."

I left the dining room before he could answer.

My hands began shaking only when I reached the hallway.

I hated that.

I hated that some part of my body still feared him even when my heart was done loving him.

By noon, Mia arrived under the excuse of discussing charity gala seating arrangements.

She found me in the sunroom, cutting my name out of Moretti invitations with a silver letter opener.

"That looks symbolic," she said.

"It feels therapeutic."

Mia closed the door behind her and lowered her voice.

"He knows something."

"He suspects."

"That's worse."

"I know."

She sat across from me, face pale beneath her makeup.

"Elena, if he finds out before you leave—"

"He won't."

"Dante is not stupid."

"No. But he is arrogant."

Mia didn't smile.

"Arrogant men still kill people."

"He won't kill me."

"No," she said quietly. "He'll cage you better."

That was the truth neither of us wanted to say.

Dante wouldn't put a bullet in me.

He would lock every door. Freeze every account. Turn every airport into enemy territory. He would tell himself it was protection.

Men like Dante always renamed possession as protection.

I looked toward the rain sliding down the glass.

"Then I leave sooner."

Mia's eyes widened.

"How soon?"

"Three days."

"Elena."

"Can Isabella move the flight?"

"She can try."

"Tell her to do more than try."

Mia reached across the table and grabbed my hand.

"Once you do this, you can't hesitate."

I looked at her fingers wrapped around mine.

"I know."

"If he calls, don't answer."

"I know."

"If he sends men—"

"I disappear."

She swallowed.

"And if he comes himself?"

For the first time all day, I felt something sharp under my ribs.

Not fear.

Grief.

"Then I remind him he signed the papers."

Mia left an hour later.

Dante returned before dinner.

That alone was unusual.

He entered the library while I was standing on a ladder, taking books from the upper shelves and placing them into a donation box.

"What are you doing?"

"Cleaning."

"You don't clean."

"Apparently I do now."

His eyes dropped to the box.

"Those are yours."

"Not anymore."

"Why are you getting rid of them?"

"Because I don't need them."

"You love those books."

I looked down at him.

He sounded almost accusing.

As if my love for old poetry and tragic novels had been one more item in his inventory, and I had misplaced it without permission.

"People stop loving things," I said.

His face hardened.

"Do they?"

"Every day."

For a long moment, neither of us moved.

Then Dante stepped forward and held out his hand.

"Come down."

"I can manage."

"Elena."

"Dante."

His gaze sharpened at my tone.

I climbed down without taking his hand.

A small thing.

A stupid thing.

But he noticed.

Of course he noticed now.

"You are angry," he said.

"No."

"Don't lie to me."

"I am not angry."

I picked up another book and placed it in the box.

"Anger requires heat. I don't have any left."

Something flickered across his face.

For one dangerous second, he looked wounded.

Then his phone rang.

Sofia.

Again.

He did not move.

The ringing continued.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He stared at me.

I stared back.

Then I smiled.

Small.

Tired.

Merciless.

"Aren't you going to answer?"

His hand closed into a fist at his side.

The ringing stopped.

For the first time in three years, Dante Moretti let Sofia's call die.

And the tragedy was that it meant nothing to me anymore.

"Too late," I whispered.

"What?" he asked.

I lifted the donation box.

"Nothing."

I walked past him.

This time, he did not stop me.

That night, I received a message from Isabella.

Flight moved. Three days. Same route. Burn everything after reading.

I deleted the message.

Then I stood in the dark bedroom and looked at Dante's side of the bed.

Empty again.

Always empty when I needed him.

Too full when I needed freedom.

I opened my suitcase.

Three days.

The cage finally had a door.

And this time, I would not wait for permission to walk through it.