“This is what loving you cost me,” I said quietly. “Defending your name in every council meeting. Standing between you and every enemy. Acting like a partner instead of property. I should’ve left the moment I realized you never loved me—you claimed me.”
“Then why didn’t you?” he snapped. “Because you needed me. You always did.”
“And you,” I whispered, “were too much of a coward to ever let me go.”
His smirk deepened.
“Why would I?” he said calmly. “You never stay gone.”
That was when the needle pierced my skin.
It was thick—too thick—more like a blade than a medical instrument. The pain hit instantly, sharp and searing as it slid into my vein. I didn’t scream. I wouldn’t give him that pleasure. But sweat soaked my neck, and my fingers trembled violently against the restraints.
As the blood drained, memories went with it.
Our first appearance as Don and Donna.
The night I stepped into gunfire meant for him.
Every lonely hour spent convincing myself that waiting was love.
He watched the entire time—silent, detached—as if I were nothing more than a container being emptied.
“Don Moretti,” a doctor said cautiously, “her vitals are destabilizing. If we continue—”