By the time we dropped Mia off, it was past nine. The snow around the lake came down harder, glazing the road with thin ice. When the Cadillac finally rolled into the underground garage beneath our penthouse, my fingers had gone numb.

Lucian killed the engine and leaned over to unfasten my seat belt. “I’m sorry, Elena. I’ll cancel the dock meeting tomorrow and book the opera house again. Just you and me. All right?”

I looked at his face, close enough to touch. He was still beautiful in that dangerous, unfair way. He still looked at me like I was the softest weakness in his ruthless world.

But the red above his head wouldn’t fade.

[198 days, 11 hours, 45 minutes.]

I opened the car door. “No. I don’t feel well. I just want to rest.”

We didn’t speak again that night. After my shower, a migraine stabbed behind my temples. I hadn’t eaten dinner, so my blood sugar crashed too.

My fingers trembled, and black spots flickered at the edge of my vision. Lucian came out from behind the bar and went still when he saw my face.

“Why are you so pale?” He helped me to the sofa. Then he brought the emergency kit, found my migraine capsules, and poured me a warm electrolyte drink.

“Take these first.” He put the pills in my palm and watched me swallow. Then he went into the kitchen, sliced honeyed lemon, and steeped a pot of hot tea.

I lay against the pillows, listening to the soft tap of glass against marble. That was the maddening thing about Lucian. He had never been cheap with me. When I was sick, he fussed over me. When someone insulted me at a family dinner, he made sure that person vanished from every guest list in Chicago by sunrise.

On paper, he was a perfect fiancé. That was why I’d let his gentle warmth numb me for seven years. Then the countdown appeared, and the paper-perfect engagement began to rot in front of me.

Lucian came in with the honey-lemon drink and set it carefully on my nightstand. “Let it cool for a minute. Don’t burn yourself.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand. “Still mad at me? I only felt sorry for her. Elena, I swear. You’re the only woman in my heart.”

I looked at him for a long second. Was I? My eyes lifted to the numbers above his head.

[198 days, 10 hours, 20 minutes.]

They hadn’t gone up by even a heartbeat. His apology, his guilt, his little attempts to make peace hadn’t earned back even one second. I slowly pulled my hand out of his. “I’m not mad.”

The private phone on his nightstand rang at that moment, slicing through the quiet bedroom. Lucian paused, then picked it up.

The screen lit, and I saw the caller ID. Mia Crane. He glanced at me.

Then he answered and put it on speaker. He always liked proving his innocence with this kind of open honesty.

“Mr. Bellandi…” Mia’s voice came through thick with tears.

“What happened?” Lucian’s voice tightened at once.

“The boiler pipe in my building burst, and the fire department cleared everyone out.” Mia was shaking so badly I could hear her teeth chatter. Wind and raised voices roared behind her.

“I had just changed into a nightdress. My wallet, ID, and key card are still upstairs. I’m hiding by the back stairwell, and I’m calling from the doorman’s desk.”

She sniffed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bellandi. I really didn’t know who else to call.”

Lucian shot to his feet. “Stay inside the lobby. Don’t go out on the street. I’m coming.”

He ended the call and reached for his holster and keys. “Elena, something happened at Mia’s building. I need to go.”

I sat against the headboard and watched him. “There’s a blizzard outside.”

“I know.”

“I almost passed out ten minutes ago.”

His hands paused on the straps of his holster. He came back to the bed and touched my cheek. “You took the medicine. Drink something warm and sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning. She’s a young woman stuck in South Dock in a nightdress. You know what that neighborhood is like.”

“Wait for me at home. I’ll deal with it and come right back.” Then he strode out of the bedroom.

The penthouse door closed with a heavy, final sound. I looked at the honey-lemon drink steaming on the nightstand, then at the empty space where he had stood. The air still seemed stained with the red glow of his countdown.

[120 days, 8 hours, 15 minutes.]

By morning, the migraine had eased, but my body still felt hollow. Lucian hadn’t come home all night. At six, his message arrived.

[The repair crew never showed. I let her stay in a family safe house for the night. I’m back at the hotel now to handle the dock books. Remember to eat.]

I stared at the words. A family safe house.

The Bellandi safe houses were not hotels. They were not favors. They were the most private shelters the family owned, reserved only for people the Don had personally decided to protect.

I didn’t believe they’d slept together. Lucian had lines he wouldn’t cross. But those words still hurt to look at.

That afternoon, I went to the Bellandi Hotel. Ava had borrowed my car the night before and said she’d drive it to the hotel for me. She also asked me to bring over a few contracts Lucian had left at the penthouse.

The frosted-glass door to the top-floor office opened into silence. Lucian was downstairs in a casino meeting. Mia sat at the assistant’s desk, sorting through a stack of chip ledgers. The second she saw me, she stood.

“Miss Vale. What are you doing here? Are you feeling better?”

Her smile was bright, her eyes clean, as if nothing strange had happened at all. She wore a gray wool skirt and a black cashmere scarf around her neck.

I knew that scarf. Lucian wore it every winter because it had belonged to his father before the old Don died. Everyone in the family knew no one touched Lucian’s personal things unless his eyes gave permission first.

Mia followed my gaze and stroked the edge of the scarf with her fingertips. “Please don’t misunderstand, Miss Vale. Last night was chaos, and my coat got soaked. Mr. Bellandi said the casino floor was freezing, so he lent me the scarf. I’ll have it dry-cleaned later.”

“He’s such a good man. Nothing like the monster people make him out to be.”

I walked over and placed the contracts on her desk. “Is that so?”

My eyes moved past her to the space beside her monitor. A Venetian crystal hourglass sat there.

The glass was clear, and fine blue sand slid through its narrow middle in a slow, shining stream. I had bought a pair during a work trip to Venice. One sat on my bedroom desk.

The other I had sent to Lucian’s office. I told him I hoped that every time he looked at it, he’d remember to leave a little time for me. Now it was on Mia’s assistant desk.

Mia noticed me looking and tapped the hourglass lightly. “Oh, this? Mr. Bellandi saw me losing track of meeting times this morning, so he gave it to me. It’s gorgeous. You have great taste, Miss Vale.”

She wasn’t taunting me. She didn’t even sound malicious. That was what made it worse. It was a dull blade grinding slowly into my chest.

I didn’t answer. I pushed open the door to Lucian’s office. It was empty.

On his desk, where the hourglass used to sit, only a faint round mark remained. Ten minutes later, Lucian came back from his meeting. He froze when he saw me sitting on the sofa.

“Why are you here? I told you to rest at home.” He came over and reached for my forehead out of habit.

I turned my face away. His hand stiffened in midair before he slowly lowered it.

“Still angry?” He sighed and sat in the armchair beside me. “Last night was a special case. Her building boiler blew, and South Dock was a mess. I couldn’t leave her standing in the street alone.”

I lifted my eyes to him. “You once said no one but me could touch that scarf.”

Lucian frowned, the apology in his eyes cooling into impatience. “Elena, don’t make it sound ugly. Her coat was wet. What was I supposed to do, let her freeze through a workday?”

“And the hourglass?” I cut in. “Was that another casual little favor?”

For once, something unnatural flickered through his eyes. Then it vanished, replaced by the same righteous calm.

“It was just sitting on my desk. She has to track my schedule from her side. It was useful there. If you like it that much, I’ll have a whole crate shipped from Venice. You never used to be this petty, Elena.”

“Making a scene in front of staff over a scarf and an hourglass—is that really worth losing your dignity?”

I looked at the numbers above his head.

[89 days, 12 hours, 5 minutes.]

From a hundred and twenty days to less than ninety. When a relationship had already been sentenced to death in someone else’s heart, even breathing could become a crime.

I stood and picked up my bag. “You’re right. It’s not worth it.”

I had once feared the countdown hitting zero. But in that moment, I stopped being afraid.

Because I finally understood that waiting for someone to leave was more pathetic than leaving first. When the elevator doors closed, I messaged Rosalind, my lawyer.

[I’m done with Lucian. Help me remove my name from every Bellandi account and private arrangement. Fast.]

The sky darkened again after I left the Bellandi Hotel. Ava handed me my car key and studied my face. “You look like you crawled out of a morgue. Did you finally go to war with that Bellandi Don?”

I shook my head. “No.”

We hadn’t gone to war. We hadn’t even raised our voices. We were simply walking, quietly and steadily, toward the end of the countdown.

At six, the wind picked up without warning. I was driving back to the penthouse when I passed under the West Loop freight bridge. A strip of scrap metal on the road sliced into one of my tires.

The car lurched hard and died under the bridge. Abandoned warehouses crowded both sides of the street. Two streetlights were out.

All I could hear was the fine, relentless hiss of snow pellets striking the roof. I took out my phone. Thirteen percent battery.

I called Lucian. For seven years, calling him had been my first instinct whenever I was in trouble.

The phone rang for a long time before he answered. “Elena.”

His voice was messy. Men were shouting in the background, and somewhere glass shattered.

“Lucian, I got a flat under the West Loop freight bridge.” My fingers had gone stiff around the steering wheel.

“There’s no one around, and I can’t get a ride out here. Can you send someone to pick me up?”

He was silent for one second. Then Mia’s broken sobs cut through the call. “I didn’t mean to ruin the shipment. I swear. If the family loses that money, I can’t pay it back in ten lifetimes. Maybe it’s better if I just disappear.”

Lucian’s voice turned sharp and urgent. “Mia, put the gun down. That’s not something you touch.”

Then he spoke into the phone, fast. “Elena, Mia handed a dock ledger to the wrong person. One of our rivals almost got tonight’s route. She’s hysterical right now, and she has a gun.”

“I can’t leave. Call security. Have them send a car.”

The line went dead. I stared at the dark phone screen.

Suddenly the air inside the car felt colder than the snow outside. I didn’t call him again. I didn’t call security either.

I opened the door and stepped into the storm. Snow slapped my face like tiny knives. My heels sank into half-melted slush, and every step felt cold, heavy, and absurdly loud in the empty street.

I walked along the freight bridge alone for a long time before I finally flagged down a ride outside a twenty-four-hour auto shop. By the time I returned to the penthouse, it was close to midnight.

I pulled out a deep green suitcase and opened the wardrobe, then packed only my usual clothes, my passport, my bank cards, and the old framed photo my mother had left me.

I didn’t touch the gowns Lucian had ordered for me, the key to our opera box, or the racing club membership card Lucian had issued under the Bellandi name. After I finished packing, I went into the study. Rosalind had already sent me a checklist for separating my accounts, property access, and every private arrangement tied to the Bellandi family.

I went through it line by line, leaving instructions for everything that had to be removed from the Bellandi name before I left Chicago.

Then I placed Rosalind’s checklist and a note on the black obsidian coffee table in the middle of the living room. Beside them, I set down the diamond engagement ring Lucian had slid onto my finger the night he asked me to marry him.

When it was done, I took my suitcase and left the penthouse I had lived in for seven years. At two in the morning, Lucian opened the front door with exhaustion dragging at every line of his body. He had just patched the ledger mess and sent Mia back to the safe house.

“Elena, I’m home.” He unbuckled his holster as he called my name.

No one answered.

He frowned and switched on the living room lights. The first thing he saw was the stack of papers on the coffee table, the note beside them, and the diamond ring catching the light like a piece of ice.

He walked over and picked up the note.

[Lucian, I’m calling off the engagement. Don’t come after me.]

His eyes dropped from the note to the diamond engagement ring lying beside it.

For the first time in his life, something like panic tore through him. At that exact second, the countdown above his head—the one that had fallen below a hundred days—flickered violently.

[89 days, 12 hours, 5 minutes.]

Red light surged. Then it changed.

[125 days, 7 hours, 30 minutes.]

For the first time, the countdown began to move backward.