I was eighteen when I left Italy for Chicago.

My brother Leo handed me over to his most powerful ally for “protection.” Don Damien Volkov.

His eyes locked on me the first time we met. They never looked away.

By day, I was his private doctor. By night, I was the only thing in his bed.

His seduction was a slow, deliberate hunt.

The way his body brushed against mine during an exam. A stray kiss that landed behind my ear. The weight of his hand resting on the small of my back.

I fell fast and hard for his dark charm. I gave myself to him, letting him claim me, again and again.

For four years, our affair was a secret hidden in the shadows. In that time, he sculpted my body, teaching it to crave his touch, molding me into his perfect obsession.

Then she came back. Isabella, his exiled ex-fiancée. He sent his private jet for her.

I swallowed my pride and crashed his reunion.

An hour ago, his hands, still smelling of blood, gripped my chin. He forced his kiss on me.

But now, right in front of me, he was stroking another woman's hair.

"Elara, you're the one who climbed into my bed four years ago."

"You act like a whore, but you expect me to treat you like a Donna?"

The way he looked at Isabella was so tender. The way he looked at me was pure scorn.

Shame burned through me. Head down, I sent my brother a coded text. Accept the Moretti proposal.

I looked up. A smile bloomed on my face.

"Fine. Then this is goodbye, Damien."

I was eighteen when I left Italy for Chicago.

My brother Leo handed me over to his most powerful ally for “protection.” Don Damien Volkov.

His eyes locked on me the first time we met. They never looked away.

By day, I was his private doctor. By night, I was the only thing in his bed.

His seduction was a slow, deliberate hunt.

The way his body brushed against mine during an exam. A stray kiss that landed behind my ear. The weight of his hand resting on the small of my back.

I fell fast and hard for his dark charm. I gave myself to him, letting him claim me, again and again.

For four years, our affair was a secret hidden in the shadows. In that time, he sculpted my body, teaching it to crave his touch, molding me into his perfect obsession.

Then she came back. Isabella, his exiled ex-fiancée. He sent his private jet for her.

I swallowed my pride and crashed his reunion.

An hour ago, his hands, still smelling of blood, gripped my chin. He forced his kiss on me.

But now, right in front of me, he was stroking another woman's hair.

"Elara, you're the one who climbed into my bed four years ago."

"You act like a whore, but you expect me to treat you like a Donna?"

The way he looked at Isabella was so tender. The way he looked at me was pure scorn.

Shame burned through me. Head down, I sent my brother a coded text. Accept the Moretti proposal.

I looked up. A smile bloomed on my face.

"Fine. Then this is goodbye, Damien."

...

"You finally came to your senses?"

Leo's voice crackled through the encrypted line, buzzing with excitement.

"Four years, Elara. You're finally ditching the asshole who was too ashamed to claim you, and putting the family first."

"Julian Moretti's a good man," Leo went on. "A thousand times better than that coward hiding in the shadows."

My knuckles were white on the phone.

If only he knew that 'bastard' was his most trusted man. I'd love to see the look on his face.

"Yes, I'll agree to the marriage," I said, my voice flat. "We can sign the papers tomorrow."

After I hung up, I stared at myself in the mirror.

Pale face. Swollen red eyes. Traces of last night's tears.

You're wrong, Damien. I'm not desperate.

And I'm done loving you.

I pulled myself together. I had to get my things from his penthouse.

And I needed his signature to sign over his medical records—all of them, and all my access.

Two men in black suits blocked my way.

"Sorry, Miss Rossi," one said, his voice polite but final. "No one gets in without the boss's order."

No one?

Four years. I'd come home to this place every night for four years.

My clothes were in there. My medical bag. The whiskey glasses we’d shared.

And now I was "no one."

I clutched my phone and ducked into an empty stairwell. I dialed the number burned into my soul.

It rang and rang. Just as I was about to give up, someone answered.

But it wasn't Damien's voice.

"Hello?"

A woman's voice answered. Lazy. Satisfied.

Isabella.

She let out a sickeningly sweet laugh. "Sorry, Damien's in the shower. Who is this?"

A shower?

It was three in the afternoon.

My hand tightened on the phone, nails digging into my palm, almost drawing blood.

But it was nothing compared to the pain in my heart.

I hung up, trembling. I couldn't say another word.

The screen went dark, reflecting my pale face.

Two minutes later, the phone buzzed violently. It was Damien.

"What?"

Damien's voice was ice.

No concern. No explanation. Not a hint of guilt.

I remembered last night. Before he got Isabella's call. He'd pinned me against the bathroom wall.

His big hands roamed over every inch of my skin, taking me hard. "Miss me? Haven't had you in two days."

I shoved the memory away. My voice was a rasp.

"Damien. I need to get my things."

He grunted. Then, as if he just remembered, he gave an order.

"Right. And clean out every trace of yourself. She doesn't like it. Don't make this a problem. The West Side safe house is empty. You can stay there. I promised Leo I’d keep you safe."

He was in such a hurry to get rid of me. I almost laughed.

Four years ago. A rainy night. He was drunk, ambushed by a rival family. He stumbled into my apartment, bleeding.

The blood terrified me. I fumbled with the first-aid kit, carefully dressing his wounds. Our lips brushed.

I found the courage to kiss him. He pushed me onto the bed and deepened the kiss.

Blood dripped from his shoulder. His eyes were intoxicating as he entered me. "Love me, don't you? Stay with me. Every night."

I blushed and nodded.

Now, I was "trouble."

He was kicking me out to a safe house. And he had the nerve to say it was for my brother, his ally.

A bitter smile touched my lips.

"You're right, Damien," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Trouble should be cleaned up."

"Good. I'll have the keys sent over—"

"Don't bother," I cut in. "I can take care of myself, Boss."

Besides, once I got my things and signed his medical chart back over to him, we’d be finished. A clean break.

My four years of absurd devotion were over.

I was going to be another man's wife.

I stared at the ceiling of my hotel room until dawn. But I felt more awake than any morning I'd ever woken up next to Damien.

I took a car back to the penthouse at the top of Chicago. The moment I walked in, I thought I was in the wrong place.

Gone was the familiar, sterile scent of antiseptic mixed with my own perfume. In its place was the cloying, expensive scent of another woman. One that made me want to gag.

I pushed open the door to what used to be my medical suite and froze.

The surgical light was gone. The steel trolley with my instruments, gone. The examination table, gone.

Instead, the walls were lined with luxury wardrobes. They were stuffed with expensive gowns and furs.

Isabella's closet.

"You're here."

Damien's voice came from behind me, sharp with impatience.

I turned. He was wearing a black silk robe, his hair still damp. Fresh from a shower.

And the angry red mark on his neck was pure Isabella. Staking her claim.

“My medical supplies?” My voice was steady, dangerously so.

“Packed away,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “She doesn’t like all that cold, sterile junk.”

Cold?

For four years, this “junk” had stitched him up, kept him breathing, and dragged him back from the brink of death more times than I could count.

I was the only reason his body was still a fortress.

And now, it was just “cold, sterile junk”?

"Where?"

Damien jerked his chin toward the service hallway. "Storage room. Get it yourself."

I followed him to the narrow hallway.

He opened the storage room door. My heart stopped.

All my things were thrown on the floor like garbage.

My custom-made instruments were snapped in half.

Rare medical texts—some of them priceless first editions—were crushed underfoot.

Vials of sterile medicine littered the floor like trash.

And the whiskey glasses we’d shared… shattered into a thousand tiny shards.

"Damien..." My voice trembled.

He leaned against the doorframe, annoyed. "Hurry up. Isabella needs this space soon."

I knelt, my hand reaching for the broken shards.

That's when I saw it. Beneath the opening of his robe.

The black rose I’d designed for his chest was gone. Covered by a raw, angry letter "I."

Isabella's "I."

"You changed the tattoo," I heard myself say. My voice was hollow, distant.

He shrugged. "Out with the old, in with the new."

He saw my numb expression and sighed.

"It was worthless. Just junk. I'll buy you new paints if you need them."

Worthless?

My gaze landed on a ruined leather journal amidst the wreckage.

The cover was torn open, revealing page after page of notes I’d kept on his recovery.

One thousand and one entries. Each one a testament to the worry I carried and the love I never dared to confess.

I gathered the ruined journal, its loose pages, and all the broken pieces of my life here.

Then, I fed it all into the incinerator chute set into the wall.

Damien's brow furrowed.

"You're right, Damien." My smile was cold. "Worthless things should be burned."

Including my stupid, inconvenient feelings.

Damien's jaw tightened.

I didn’t spare his expression a glance.

I pulled the papers from my bag—my resignation and the full transfer of his medical files.

“Sign these,” I said, my voice flat, “and we’re…”

My words were cut off by his phone.

"Babe, where are you? It's snowing and I'm going to slip! Come get me," Isabella whined through the speaker.

The anger on Damien's face vanished. He didn't even look at me. He just turned and walked away.

"Find your own way out. Text me when you're gone."

He left me alone in that cold, empty room.

The blizzard was raging when I walked out of the building.

I didn't have an umbrella. The snow was too thick to find a cab.

As I walked out of the building, my foot slipped on the ice. I went down hard, my body slamming against the frozen pavement.

My hand scraped against the jagged ice ringing a flowerbed. Blood bloomed instantly, a stark red against the white snow.

Tears instantly flooded my eyes from the searing pain.

But even then, my knuckles were white as I clutched the one thing I had left: the unsigned papers he’d refused to take.

Suddenly, a familiar armored car sped past.

It didn't slow down. Icy slush splattered all over me.

Through the window, I saw him.

Damien bowed his head, carefully adjusting Isabella as she nestled in his embrace.

He just wanted her to be more comfortable.

He held her like she was his most precious treasure.

A tenderness I hadn’t felt from him once in four years.

I clenched my jaw and pushed myself up from the frozen ground, my knee screaming in protest.

But I straightened my spine. I walked into the storm, away from him, and never looked back.

My last day. I was in my office, organizing the final transfer.

Four years of his life, documented. Every medical report. Every treatment protocol. Every prescription log.

I had to clean everything up. Leave no loose ends.

My phone vibrated. A text from Damien.

"Lafite from the cellar at the Swan Club. VIP 3."

Short. Cold. Like he was talking to a stranger.

I looked at the message and almost laughed.

Four years ago, when he first asked me to bring him wine, he used to add "thanks" at the end.

Now he couldn't even be bothered with basic manners.

I took the expensive bottle of Lafite and went to the Swan Club.

The door to VIP 3 was unlocked.

I pushed it open gently, planning to drop the wine and leave.

But the scene inside made me freeze.

Isabella was sitting on Damien's lap, pressed against his chest.

His fingers traced the diamond necklace at her throat. His focus was absolute. Like he was handling a priceless masterpiece.

"Does it hurt?" he murmured, stroking a tiny red mark on her neck. His voice was full of concern.

"A little," Isabella cooed, leaning into him. "The necklace got caught. It left a mark."

Damien tensed, inspecting the barely-there line.

"It's my fault," he said, kissing the spot. "I'll be more careful."

I stood in the doorway. The wine bottle nearly slipped from my hand.

How many times had I been hurt over the past four years?

When I took a hit for him during a rival family’s ambush, my face bruised and swollen?

He just tossed me a tube of ointment.

When I sliced my palm open on shattered glass in my lab, he didn’t even look up.

“You’re the doctor,” he’d said. “Handle it.”

When I dug a bullet out of his shoulder and nearly passed out from exhaustion, he never asked if I was okay. Not once.

And now he was acting like this over a tiny red mark on Isabella's neck?

"Here's the wine," I said flatly.

They both looked at me.

Isabella's eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

“His private doctor,” I said, my voice flat as I set the bottle on the table. “The Boss requested it.”

Isabella studied me, her gaze turning dangerous. "Wait a minute... you're that princess from the Rossi family? Leo Rossi's sister?"

Before I could answer, a sharp nail raked my cheek. Pain exploded. A thin line of blood welled on my skin.

Damien shot to his feet, a flicker of shock in his eyes.

"Isabella, what the hell are you doing?"

But her eyes instantly filled with tears. She pointed at me, crying to Damien.

"The Rossi princess! She has everything, but she'd rather be your mistress."

"And you told me she meant nothing to you!"

The air went still.

Damien's complicated gaze flickered over me for a second. Then he gently pulled Isabella into his arms and kissed her tears away.

His voice was a frustrating mix of exasperation and adoration.

"Shhh, don't be scared. She's nothing. She can't hurt you."

Then he turned to me, his eyes cold as ice. "Even if she does like me... it's all in her head. Isabella, you have nothing to worry about."

A smirk flashed across Isabella's face. She snuggled into his chest.

"Then get rid of her! I don't want to see her again!"

Damien's brow twitched. He almost seemed to hesitate.

Seeing this, Isabella grabbed a cigar from the table.

Before Damien could move, she shoved the glowing tip of the cigar into the back of my hand.

The sick-sweet smell of my own burning flesh filled the air.

I gasped, instinctively trying to pull my hand back.

But Isabella was faster. She cried out first, pointing at her own slightly red fingers. "Ouch, it's hot! I was just offering her a cigar and she pushed me."

"Enough!" Damien finally snapped.

But his anger wasn't for Isabella. It was for me.

His eyes scanned right past the blackened burn on my hand.

"Elara! You've been with me for four years. Can't you handle a little jealousy? Or were you trying to hurt her?"

Before I could speak, Damien called for his right-hand man.

“Freeze all her payments from the gallery, effective immediately,” Damien continued, his voice devoid of any emotion. “And pull all funding for that medical conference she was supposed to present at. My family’s name won’t be attached to it.”

His man froze.

He glanced quickly at my disheveled state, then said carefully, "But, Boss, Miss Rossi... she's already engaged to the Moretti family..."