The Runaway Wife's Secret Heir

Dante Sovrano POV:

The deal with the Romanos was done. We controlled the shipping lanes from here to Jersey.

I stepped off the jet, the familiar hum of victory coursing through my veins. It was a good day. The kind of day that solidified my position as the King of this city.

I checked my phone. No texts from Elara.

She was probably sulking about the gallery opening. She'd be cold for a few days, sleeping on the far side of the bed, and then she'd get over it. She always did. She was soft. Pliable.

I got into the back of the armored SUV. "Home," I told Marco.

When I walked into the penthouse, the silence hit me first.

Usually, there was music playing. Usually, there was the faint, chemical smell of turpentine and oil paint wafting from her studio.

Today, the air smelled sterile. Like a hotel room that had just been cleaned.

"Elara?" I called out, loosening my tie.

No answer.

I walked into the living room. Everything was in its place. The cushions were fluffed. The surfaces were dust-free. It was perfect.

It was lifeless.

A knot of unease tightened in my gut. I walked into the bedroom.

The bed was made with military precision.

My eyes went instantly to the nightstand.

The diamond ring caught the light. It sat there, glaring at me. Next to it was that damn photo album she had tried to show me years ago.

I walked over and picked up the ring. It was cold against my palm.

Why was her ring here?

I opened the album. Page after page of Elara. Elara at Christmas, standing alone by the tree. Elara at her birthday dinner, sitting across from an empty chair. Elara at the gallery, standing by herself amidst the crowd.

I felt a strange pressure in my chest. I tossed the album onto the bed and stormed toward her art studio.

I threw the door open.

Empty.

The easels were bare. The paints were gone. The canvases that usually lined the walls were missing.

"Marco!" I roared.

My head of security ran into the room, his gun drawn. "Boss?"

"Where is she?" I snarled, turning on him. "Where is my wife?"

Marco looked pale. "She... she came to the office earlier, Boss. You saw her. She left. We thought she came back here."

"She's not here!" I grabbed a glass jar of brushes she had left behind and hurled it against the wall. It shattered, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

Isabella strolled into the room, looking bored. She scanned the empty studio and let out a low laugh.

"Well, well," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "Looks like your little bird finally grew some wings, Dante."

"Shut up," I warned her.

Marco stepped forward, holding a thick envelope. His hands were shaking.

"Boss," he stammered. "This just arrived by courier. From a law firm."

I snatched the envelope from his hand. I ripped it open.

I pulled out the documents.

Decree of Divorce.

Irrevocable Relinquishment of Parental and Marital Rights.

My eyes scanned the bottom of the page.

There was her signature. Elegant. Looping.

And right next to it.

My signature.

The jagged, aggressive scrawl I had put there myself. Yesterday. While I was looking at a map. While I was laughing with Isabella.

The room seemed to tilt. The air left my lungs.

I hadn't just signed an insurance form.

I had signed her release.

"No," I whispered, the word scraping my throat.

I looked at the date stamp. It was filed this morning.

She was gone. And I had opened the door for her.