Chapter 6
Then his expression shifted—rage, pure and immediate. His hand came down fast and hard, slapping across my mouth before I could turn away. My head snapped sideways. I tasted iron again, fresh and metallic and hot. He left without another word. Didn’t even glance back. He didn’t ask if I’d survive the night. I curled in on myself, shaking, bleeding, barely stitched together—but still breathing. Barely. For now. *** A week. Seven full days. No calls. No texts. Not even a lousy assistant showing up with some pathetic apology bouquet. Favio never visited. Not once. I healed in silence. Ate plain broth alone. Changed my own bandages with shaking hands. Listened to my own heartbeat echo off the hospital walls while his world spun on like I didn’t exist. I wasn’t surprised. I was just done. So on the seventh day, I signed myself out, put on my sunglasses, and walked through the lobby like I hadn’t just lost everything twice in the same year. A driver was waiting for me outside. Not one of Favio’s. Mine. The suite was quiet when I got back. Too quiet. I limped through the marble entryway, ignoring the sharp pull in my abdomen. The housekeeper gave a soft gasp when she saw me, then tried to pretend she hadn’t. “Where is he?” I asked. She hesitated. Shifted awkwardly. “Mr. Rodrigo flew to Saint Barthélemy… with Miss Caroline.” I smiled. Big. Wide. But it wasn’t sweet. It was the kind of smile that tastes like ash and ends in fire. “Of course he did,” I murmured. I walked past her without another word and went straight to the master bedroom. The same one I had decorated in warmer days, back when I still believed love could build anything. I opened the walk-in closet and yanked out my suitcase—the rose gold one he bought me in Milan after our honeymoon. The tag still had his initials printed on it like he owned me. I set it down and began to pull every piece of clothing I still cared about. Designer gowns. Vintage jackets. A pair of black stilettos that could slice glass. I moved slowly. Still tender. But there was something about packing up your life that made you forget the pain for a second. I didn’t cry. Not once. On the pillow, I placed what was left of the divorce papers—torn, creased, but still legal. Still mine. Still waiting for his cowardly signature. Beside it, I left one of my old calling cards. The ivory one with my name embossed in gold. And on the back, written in bold black ink, I scrawled a single note:
“The next time I see you, I won’t be the woman you broke. I’ll be the one who buries you.” I zipped the suitcase, took one last look around the bedroom we used to pretend was a castle, then walked out. Head high. Spine steel. Physically, I was still healing. But mentally? I was titanium. *** The airport was chaos. It always was. Paparazzi. Influencers. Wannabe moguls dragging matching luggage and broken dreams. I wore black. Chanel. Sunglasses low on my nose. No makeup. No entourage. Just me and a carry-on full of fury. I was halfway through security when my phone rang. Him. Of course. I let it buzz twice before answering. Favio’s voice came through, arrogant as ever. “When we get back from vacation,” he said, not even a hello, “you’ll be moved into the other penthouse. The main one’s going to be Caroline’s. I’m having it redecorated.” I didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled like I had a knife between my teeth. Then: “Of course,” I said softly. “You can play house with her all you want.” He paused. “So… you’re saying yes?” “To what?” “To my offer. About the two wives.” I laughed. Not the fake laugh I used at charity events. No, this was the real thing. Dark. Hollow. The kind that echoes in empty bank vaults. “Yes,” I said. “I’ve made my decision.” He sounded hopeful. “So you’ll stay?” “No,” I said. “I decided I’m going to bury you alive.” Then I hung up. Just like that. Cut him off mid-sentence, the same way he cut me out of his life like I was disposable. I slid the phone into my coat pocket, handed the boarding pass to the gate agent, and walked toward the plane. No looking back. No goodbyes. Just steel in my veins, fire in my lungs, and a one-way ticket to a new empire—mine. — FAVIO’S POV I stared at the phone for a second after she hung up. Then I laughed. A deep, smug laugh that echoed through the suite like I’d just won a deal worth a billion. “Bury me alive?” I scoffed, pouring myself a glass of scotch. “Sure, baby. With those shaking legs and stitched-up stomach? Please.” She always said shit like that when she was pissed. Dramatic. Beautiful. Unhinged. But I knew her. Amelia was obsessed with me. Still is. Always would be. She could throw her tantrums, slam doors, spit blood if she wanted to—but she wouldn’t leave. She never could. I was her addiction. Her curse. Her goddamn oxygen. She’d crawl back like she always did. Cry in my arms. Swear she hated me while wearing my ring. I downed the scotch, reached for my phone again, and hit speed dial. “Rosa,” I said lazily when the maid answered. “Don’t feed her for two days.” A pause. “Sir?” “Just water. Moldy bread, maybe. She’ll eat when she’s ready to apologize to Caroline. For pushing her down the stairs.” “…But sir,” Rosa hesitated, her voice small. “Miss Amelia already left.” I stilled. “She—what?” “She packed her bags and boarded a plane two hours ago, sir. She’s gone.”