My fever hadn’t broken. My legs were weak, the room spinning—but I moved anyway.

Sickly, I reached into the drawer of my nightstand and pulled out the crisp manila envelope I’d kept hidden for over a year. The divorce papers. My signature already scrawled across the bottom in ink that had dried long before Caroline ever slithered her way into this house.

Only one signature left.

Favio’s.

I stared at it for a long moment. The weight of everything sat heavy in my chest, but nothing fell from my eyes. I was beyond crying now. Beyond mourning. This wasn’t grief.

It was clarity.

I grabbed my phone and the envelope, then stumbled out of the bedroom, barefoot and burning from the fever, but determined.

I was done being polite. Done being patient. I was going to find Favio, put these papers in his hand, and end whatever illusion we were still living in.

But fate—being the cruel, theatrical bitch she is—had other plans.

Because the moment I reached the stairs, Caroline appeared like a snake uncoiling from the shadows. Before I could step around her, she lunged—grabbing my wrist, eyes gleaming.

And then, like some deranged soap opera villain, she threw herself backward.

We both went tumbling down the grand staircase of the penthouse.

Marble. Because of course it had to be marble.

I hit my back, then my shoulder, then finally slammed my head against the edge of a stair so hard I saw stars. The pain was instant. Blinding. Like déjà vu from that night in the hospital—when I lost my baby.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Favio!” Caroline’s voice shrieked from somewhere below me. “Oh my God—the baby! I think something’s wrong!”

Seriously? That was her game? That was her angle?

Footsteps thundered, and Favio burst into view like some overdramatic hero, except his face didn’t twist in concern for me—no, not even close.

“Caroline, baby—are you okay?” he crouched beside her, touching her face like she was made of porcelain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve never gone along with that stem cell transfer. If you’re mad, Amelia, then take it out on me—but not on the baby. Please.”

…What?

I blinked up at him from the bottom of the stairs, blood in my mouth, my ribs screaming with every breath.

Wait. Did he just—?

“You’ve really lost it,” he snapped, eyes narrowing when they finally landed on me. “I didn’t think you’d go this far. If anything happens to Caroline or that baby, I’ll make sure you never show your face in Manhattan again.”

Manhattan. Not jail. Not a hospital. No. Because in Favio Rodrigo’s world, being exiled from the billionaire elite was worse than prison.

I tried to speak but my throat burned. My vision blurred again. The edges of the crystal chandelier above me went fuzzy. All I could hear was Caroline’s shaky, angelic voice.

“Favio, I was so scared… she pushed me.”

Liar.

Then I feel it. Hot. Deep. A tearing sensation that made my body seize up like someone had set fire to my insides.

And then—

Blood.

I felt it before I saw it. Warm and wet, running down my thighs, soaking into the silk of my nightgown and pooling beneath me like some slow, horrifying flood. I tried to move, to reach for something—anything—but pain lashed through my stomach so sharp, so violent, I choked on my own breath.

The stitches. From the surgery. From losing the baby.

They’d ruptured.

And God, there was so much blood.

My head hit the cold marble again. My vision flickered, then spiraled out. Darkness took me under like a wave. No warning. No mercy.

***

I woke up to white. Not heaven. Hospital.

Or some version of it—sterile walls, soft beeping somewhere nearby, the smell of antiseptic so strong it made my stomach turn.

I was bandaged. Everywhere. Under the covers, I could feel gauze wrapped tight around my abdomen, my thighs, even one shoulder. My mouth tasted like copper and cotton.

I turned my head—slow, dizzy.

There were no nurses. No machines. No call buttons. No goddamn windows.

Just a room. One bed. One chair.

One man.

Favio.

He stood at the foot of my bed, glass of red wine in his hand like this was a casual dinner party and not the aftermath of an attempted murder.

“Oh,” he said, spotting the blood on the floor by the base of the bed. “Wow. You’re so dramatic.”

He sipped the wine.

Like nothing was wrong.

I tried to speak, but my lips were cracked and dry. I could barely whisper, let alone scream. My throat stung, my ribs ached, and every inch of me felt like it had been stitched back together with barbed wire.

Then he raised the divorce paper. Read the first page, then flipped to the last.

His name. My name.

Only his signature was missing.

He laughed. Low and cold and cruel.

Then without a word, he ripped it straight down the middle.

The sound of it—paper tearing—it hit harder than I expected.

“You want to divorce me?” he said, voice soaked in amusement. “Not until Caroline is okay. You owe her. After everything she’s done for you? You really think you get to just walk away now?”

I opened my mouth, tried to say something—anything—but all that came out was a raw, painful sound.

He pulled his phone from his pocket as it rang, smirk already blooming across his face.

“Hey, baby,” he said, turning slightly toward the window like I wasn’t even there. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s awake. She looks like hell, but she’s breathing. Don’t worry.”

He paused, laughed at something she said, then turned back to me. His eyes scanned my face—bloodied, swollen, helpless—and yet there was still that gleam in them. Like he enjoyed this.

“I know you hate me,” he said, tucking the phone against his shoulder. “But I also know you’re still in love with me too. You can’t let go. You never could. Don’t fight it, Amelia.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was telling me something romantic.

“If you want… you and Caroline can both be my wives. Let’s be happy. Just the three of us.”

That was it.

I spat.

Right in his face. Blood and bile, the only weapon I had left.

“Go. To. Hell.”

Then his expression shifted—rage, pure and immediate. His hand came down fast and hard, slapping across my mouth before I could turn away. My head snapped sideways. I tasted iron again, fresh and metallic and hot.

He left without another word. Didn’t even glance back. He didn’t ask if I’d survive the night.

I curled in on myself, shaking, bleeding, barely stitched together—but still breathing.

Barely.

For now.

***

A week. Seven full days.

No calls. No texts. Not even a lousy assistant showing up with some pathetic apology bouquet.

Favio never visited.

Not once.

I healed in silence. Ate plain broth alone. Changed my own bandages with shaking hands. Listened to my own heartbeat echo off the hospital walls while his world spun on like I didn’t exist.

I wasn’t surprised.

I was just done.

So on the seventh day, I signed myself out, put on my sunglasses, and walked through the lobby like I hadn’t just lost everything twice in the same year.

A driver was waiting for me outside. Not one of Favio’s.

Mine.

The suite was quiet when I got back. Too quiet.

I limped through the marble entryway, ignoring the sharp pull in my abdomen. The housekeeper gave a soft gasp when she saw me, then tried to pretend she hadn’t.

“Where is he?” I asked.

She hesitated. Shifted awkwardly. “Mr. Rodrigo flew to Saint Barthélemy… with Miss Caroline.”

I smiled. Big. Wide. But it wasn’t sweet.

It was the kind of smile that tastes like ash and ends in fire.

“Of course he did,” I murmured.

I walked past her without another word and went straight to the master bedroom. The same one I had decorated in warmer days, back when I still believed love could build anything.

I opened the walk-in closet and yanked out my suitcase—the rose gold one he bought me in Milan after our honeymoon. The tag still had his initials printed on it like he owned me.

I set it down and began to pull every piece of clothing I still cared about.

Designer gowns. Vintage jackets. A pair of black stilettos that could slice glass. I moved slowly. Still tender. But there was something about packing up your life that made you forget the pain for a second.

I didn’t cry.

Not once.

On the pillow, I placed what was left of the divorce papers—torn, creased, but still legal. Still mine. Still waiting for his cowardly signature.

Beside it, I left one of my old calling cards. The ivory one with my name embossed in gold. And on the back, written in bold black ink, I scrawled a single note:

> “The next time I see you, I won’t be the woman you broke. I’ll be the one who buries you.”

I zipped the suitcase, took one last look around the bedroom we used to pretend was a castle, then walked out. Head high. Spine steel.

Physically, I was still healing. But mentally?

I was titanium.

***

The airport was chaos. It always was. Paparazzi. Influencers. Wannabe moguls dragging matching luggage and broken dreams.

I wore black. Chanel. Sunglasses low on my nose. No makeup. No entourage. Just me and a carry-on full of fury.

I was halfway through security when my phone rang.

Him.

Of course.

I let it buzz twice before answering.

Favio’s voice came through, arrogant as ever. “When we get back from vacation,” he said, not even a hello, “you’ll be moved into the other penthouse. The main one’s going to be Caroline’s. I’m having it redecorated.”

I didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled like I had a knife between my teeth.

Then: “Of course,” I said softly. “You can play house with her all you want.”

He paused. “So… you’re saying yes?”

“To what?”

“To my offer. About the two wives.”

I laughed.

Not the fake laugh I used at charity events. No, this was the real thing. Dark. Hollow. The kind that echoes in empty bank vaults.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve made my decision.”

He sounded hopeful. “So you’ll stay?”

“No,” I said. “I decided I’m going to bury you alive.”

Then I hung up.

Just like that. Cut him off mid-sentence, the same way he cut me out of his life like I was disposable.

I slid the phone into my coat pocket, handed the boarding pass to the gate agent, and walked toward the plane.

No looking back.

No goodbyes.

Just steel in my veins, fire in my lungs, and a one-way ticket to a new empire—mine.

---

FAVIO’S POV

I stared at the phone for a second after she hung up. Then I laughed.

A deep, smug laugh that echoed through the suite like I’d just won a deal worth a billion.

“Bury me alive?” I scoffed, pouring myself a glass of scotch. “Sure, baby. With those shaking legs and stitched-up stomach? Please.”

She always said shit like that when she was pissed. Dramatic. Beautiful. Unhinged.

But I knew her. Amelia was obsessed with me. Still is. Always would be.

She could throw her tantrums, slam doors, spit blood if she wanted to—but she wouldn’t leave.

She never could. I was her addiction. Her curse. Her goddamn oxygen.

She’d crawl back like she always did. Cry in my arms. Swear she hated me while wearing my ring.

I downed the scotch, reached for my phone again, and hit speed dial.

“Rosa,” I said lazily when the maid answered. “Don’t feed her for two days.”

A pause.

“Sir?”

“Just water. Moldy bread, maybe. She’ll eat when she’s ready to apologize to Caroline. For pushing her down the stairs.”

“...But sir,” Rosa hesitated, her voice small. “Miss Amelia already left.”

I stilled. “She—what?”

“She packed her bags and boarded a plane two hours ago, sir. She’s gone.”