Too Late: The Don's Regretful Pursuit

The next morning, the silence in the house was heavy, suffocating-like a tomb.

I stood in the library, waiting for the printer to churn out the final boarding pass, when the heavy oak door creaked open.

Catalina.

Gone was the smug smile she usually wore like a weapon. Today, she looked serious. Predatory.

"You're leaving," she stated flatly. It wasn't a question; her eyes had already darted to the suitcase standing by the door.

"Get out," I said, my fingers trembling slightly as I folded the paper.

She ignored me, walking straight to the desk to toss a manila envelope onto the polished wood. It slid across the surface and bumped against my hand.

"Open it."

I hesitated, a cold knot forming in my stomach, before undoing the clasp. Photographs spilled out.

They were old. Grainy. Capturing a teenage Jax and Catalina.

But there was nothing innocent about them.

There was one of Jax braiding her dark hair. Another of him holding her hand while she slept. And one of him looking at her... looking at her with the same raw adoration he used to give me, before the world hardened him into stone.

"He's been grooming me to be his wife since we were twelve," Catalina said softly, her voice laced with venomous sweetness. "The family just got in the way with their contracts and alliances. But he always came back to me. Even when he was with you."

She tapped a manicured fingernail on a photo dated three years ago. The night of my engagement party.

In the image, Jax stood in the garden, pressing a kiss to Catalina's forehead. He held her face with a tenderness that made my stomach lurch violently.

"He told me that night," she whispered. "He said, 'Marrying her is business. Loving you is my life.'"

I stared at the photo, the date stamp mocking me. I remembered that night vividly. I remembered searching for him in the dark. He had returned with grass stains on his knees, claiming he had tripped.

And I, the fool, had believed him.

"Why are you showing me this?" I asked, my voice barely holding together.

"Because I want you to know," she said, leaning in until her perfume clogged my senses. "You never had a chance. You were just the placeholder. The seat warmer."

She snatched the photos back with a sharp hiss. "And now, the show is over."

She turned toward the door, then paused. A wicked, terrifying glint entered her eyes.

"Oh, and Eliana?"

"What?"

She threw herself backward.

It happened in slow motion. She hurled her body against the heavy oak bookshelf with sickening force. She screamed-a piercing, terrified sound that shredded the air-and collapsed onto the floor, dragging a heavy porcelain vase down with her.

CRASH.

"HELP! JAX! SHE'S CRAZY!"

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. *Not again.*

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall. The door burst open, and Jax charged into the room, his gun already drawn.

He took in the scene instantly: Catalina sobbing on the floor amidst shattered porcelain, clutching her arm; me standing by the desk, frozen.

He didn't ask. He didn't assess.

He holstered the weapon and crossed the room in two terrifying strides. He shoved me. Hard.

I stumbled back, my hip slamming into the edge of the desk.

"I warned you!" he snarled, his face inches from mine, eyes wild with rage. Spittle hit my cheek. "I told you not to touch her!"

"I didn't-"

"Shut up!" He spun around, dropping to his knees beside Catalina, his voice instantly softening into a coo. "Cat, baby, let me see."

"She hit me with the vase," Catalina sobbed, burying her face in the crook of his neck. "She said if she couldn't have you, no one could."

Jax looked back at me over his shoulder. The hatred in his eyes was absolute. It was the look a man gives a rabid dog before he puts it down.

"Get out of my sight," he hissed. "If you weren't your father's daughter, I'd kill you right here."

He scooped Catalina up into his arms and carried her out.

I stood there, leaning against the desk for support, listening to the fading echo of their footsteps.

That was it. The final tether had snapped.

I picked up a pen. I pulled out a sheet of heavy stationery embossed with the Viles family crest.

I wrote three sentences.

*I release you from the oath. I release you from the contract. I hope she's worth the war.*

I slid the engagement ring off my finger-the replacement he had bought after I flushed the first one down the drain. I placed the cold metal on the paper.

I grabbed my suitcase. I grabbed my cane.

I walked out the back door. The servant's entrance.

The rain was pouring again, a relentless deluge that soaked my clothes instantly. My damaged leg throbbed with every step, a rhythmic spike of pain.

But I didn't stop.

I reached the service gate. The guard, a young kid named Marco whom I had once helped clear a gambling debt, stared at me. His eyes dropped to the suitcase.

"Miss Eliana?" he asked, confused.

"Open the gate, Marco," I said, my voice hollow. "Please."

He hesitated. He looked back at the looming house, then at my face, which was wet with rain and tears.

He hit the buzzer.

"Go," he whispered, turning his head away.

I stepped out onto the public road. A black sedan was waiting-the Uber I had summoned.

I climbed in.

"JFK," I said.

As the car pulled away, I didn't look back at the mansion. I didn't look back at the life that had slowly suffocated me.

I was a Queen without a crown, limping and broken. But for the first time in ten years, the air filling my lungs belonged to me.

Jax POV

The champagne tasted like piss.

I stood on the podium, looking out at the sea of faces. The entire syndicate was here to celebrate our victory over the Rossis.

Catalina stood next to me, draped in a red dress that cost more than most people made in a decade. She was smiling, waving, playing the part of the dutiful consort.

"And to my partner," I said into the microphone, the words feeling like gravel in my throat. "The woman who stood by me when the bullets were flying. Catalina."

Applause erupted. It was polite, dutiful noise.

I looked at her. She beamed up at me, clutching my arm, her eyes bright with triumph.

But when I looked at her-really looked at her-I felt nothing.

No spark. No protective rage. Just a dull, aching exhaustion.

I stepped down from the podium. People swarmed us, offering congratulations.

"Where's Eliana?" someone asked. It was old Don Salvatore. He had always had a soft spot for her.

"She's... unwell," I lied automatically. "Resting."

"Pity," Salvatore grunted, swirling his drink. "She has a good head on her shoulders. Better than most men in this room."

He walked away, but his words stuck in my chest like a splinter.

The party dragged on. Catalina got drunk. She started dancing on a table, and the men cheered. I watched her, feeling a strange, cold sense of embarrassment. Eliana never danced on tables. Eliana danced in the studio, with a grace that made the world stop spinning.

I needed to get out of here.

"I'm going home," I told my second-in-command. "Make sure Cat gets back safely."

I took the car. I drove fast. The silence inside the armored SUV was suffocating.

When I reached the estate, the lights were off.

I walked inside. It was quiet. Too quiet.

"Eliana?" I called out.

No answer.

I took the stairs two at a time. I went straight to her room.

The door was open.

I walked in. The bed was made perfectly. The closet door was ajar.

I looked inside. Empty.

The shelves were bare. The vanity was cleared of her perfumes and creams.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in my chest.

"Eliana!" I shouted, running to the bathroom. Empty.

I ran to the study.

On the desk sat a single piece of paper. And the ring.

I picked up the note.

*I release you from the oath. I release you from the contract. I hope she's worth the war.*

My hands started to shake.

"No," I whispered, the denial rising like bile. "No, no, no."

I grabbed my phone and dialed her number.

*The number you have dialed is no longer in service.*

I dialed again. And again.

I called her father.

"Where is she?" I demanded the moment he picked up.

"She's gone, Jax," the Consigliere said. His voice sounded old. Defeated. "She left the state. She told me if I revealed her location, she'd disappear for good. She signed the NDA. She's out."

"You let her go?" I roared. "She's my fiancée!"

"She was your victim," he snapped. "And now she's free."

The line went dead.

I stood there in the silent study, clutching the note until the paper crinkled.

She was gone. Eliana. My shadow. My conscience. The only person who looked at me and saw the man, not the Don.

She didn't just leave. She erased herself.

I looked at the ring. I remembered putting it on her finger. I remembered promising to protect her.

I had failed.

I walked to the liquor cabinet and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. I didn't bother with a glass.

I sat in her chair. It still smelled like her-jasmine and vanilla.

I took a long pull, relishing the burn.

"She's just throwing a tantrum," I said to the empty room, my voice sounding hollow in the gloom. "She'll be back. She has nowhere else to go. She needs me."

I took another drink.

"She needs me," I repeated, louder this time.

But as the silence of the house pressed in on me, heavier than any enemy fire, a terrifying thought clawed its way up from the depths of my denial.

Maybe... maybe I was the one who needed her.

And she wasn't coming back.

I threw the bottle against the wall.

It shattered, amber liquid bleeding down the expensive wallpaper like a wound.

"COME BACK!" I screamed until my throat tore.

But only the echo answered.