The night of his birthday dinner arrived.

Killian still hadn't received my gift.

He picked up his phone and dialed my number. "Tell Stanra to come back. Enough with the drama. Her birthday is in three days; we'll hold the engagement ceremony then."

He placed the call. My estate wasn't far from Manhattan, not like Chicago; the line should have connected instantly. But all he got was a busy signal.

My soul floated above them, cold and numb.

I saw his phone ring just once before it was taken by one of Briar's accomplices.

They spoke in low voices for a moment.

Then the man handed the phone back to Killian.

"She rejected your call. She said... she'll never forgive you unless you go to the Long Island estate to get her yourself."

If the call had gone through, he would have heard my mother's heart-wrenching sobs as she prepared for my funeral.

My family's veteran driver had already brought my body home.

All of it except for my head.

Killian knew nothing of this.

The lie stoked his anger.

"If she won't come back, then let her stay on Long Island."

The next morning, Briar burst into Killian's study, her arm in a sling.

"Kian," she sobbed, "I failed… I angered Stanra. She sent men to shoot at me. But don't blame her, it's all my fault."

Rage flared in Killian's eyes. He pulled her into his arms.

"Get the family doctor! Now! If anything happens to Briar, I'll have all your heads!"

Then, his face turned to ice.

"Bring Stanra to me. Now. If she won't come and beg Briar for forgiveness, I'll desecrate Marco's mausoleum."

Marco. My father. The late Consigliere of the Caruso family.

I watched him, hollow.

Even as a ghost, I could feel it—the tremor in my chest.

But I was already dead.

How was I supposed to beg for forgiveness?

This time, the men he sent did not delay. They raced to Long Island.

They brought back my mother.

Isabella Caruso knelt, trembling, before Killian.

"Don Vitali, Stanra is dead. I'm begging you—leave our family in peace."

"What?"

Before he could rise, Briar collapsed into his arms. "Kian, Stanra would rather fake her own death than admit she hurt me. It was foolish of me to hope she might even apologize."

"If she hates me this much, I'll leave New York. That must be what she wants."

She slid from his arms and knelt on the floor. Her face was pale, and a smear of blood stained the corner of her mouth. She gave him one look—long and wounded—then turned as if to leave.

Killian caught her.

His gaze shifted to my mother, turning as cold as a winter grave.

"So Stanra still refuses to see me?"

My mother trembled on the floor. "She's gone. She's really gone."

He studied her, his patience finally snapping.