The Day He Left Me in the Snow, My Love Died

"Seriously?" he said coldly. "I barely pushed you, Adriana. Stop being so dramatic."

Then he grabbed a fresh jacket from the wardrobe.

Not only did he not stay, he even stood in front of the mirror and carefully fixed his hair, smoothing it into place as if he were going on a date. His thumb tapped twice against the face of his watch before he adjusted his collar. The gesture was small, automatic, the same one his soldiers had learned to read as the end of a conversation.

The sight made something inside me burn.

All the pain, humiliation, and disappointment I had swallowed finally surged up at once.

I stared at his back and said, word by word, "Dante, if you walk out that door tonight, we're getting a divorce."

"Divorce?"

Dante let out a short, dismissive laugh, as if I had just said something childish and absurd.

"Don't be ridiculous, Adriana. Do you really want our child to grow up without a father?"

He paused, finally turning to look at me.

Maybe it was the look on my face. Maybe it was the fact that, for once, I wasn't crying, begging, or backing down. His expression stiffened for a second before disbelief twisted across his features.

"Unbelievable."

He strode back toward me, bent down, and scooped me up from the floor.

But there was no tenderness in the gesture.

He held me like I was a problem he was tired of dealing with, then dropped me onto the bed as if he were doing me some grand favor.

"There. Happy now?" he said coldly. "Just stay in bed and rest. You'll be fine by morning."

Then he turned and left.

I didn't call after him.

I didn't beg him to stay.

I just lay there in silence, watching his back disappear through the doorway. The moment the door closed behind him, the last fragile thread of hope inside me snapped.

The room became unbearably quiet. The only sound was the low ticking of the clock on the mantel and, somewhere beyond the reinforced windows, the engine of his car pulling away from the guarded townhouse.

I reached for my phone with trembling fingers and booked an appointment with the off-ledger physician for the next day. A quiet termination. No questions. No records the Family would ever see.

I couldn't keep doing this.

I couldn't keep pretending that this marriage still had a future, that Dante still cared, that the child inside me would be born into a home filled with love.

If Dante refused to choose me, then I would choose myself.

My ankle throbbed so badly that every small movement sent pain shooting up my leg. Still, I forced myself out of bed and hobbled to the kitchen. I took a washcloth from the drawer, stuffed it into the freezer, and waited until it was cold enough to use as an ice pack.

When I pressed it against my swollen ankle, the sharp chill bit into my skin.

Tears rolled down my face before I could stop them.

Not because of the pain.

Because I finally understood that from now on, I could no longer expect Dante to take care of me.

If he wouldn't love me, I would learn to love myself.

If he wouldn't protect me, I would protect myself.

My thumb drifted to my left ring finger, pressing against the band of the Valente marriage signet. The metal was warm from my skin. It meant nothing anymore.

That night, I didn't sleep at all.

Not because I was waiting for him.

I already knew he wouldn't come back.

And just as I expected, Dante stayed out all night.

At dawn, when the sky outside was only beginning to pale over the rooftops beyond the compound gate, my phone buzzed.

It was a message from an unknown burner number.

I opened it.

Several photos appeared on the screen.