He Saved His Mistress, Not His Wife

Three days later, the hospital finally released me.

Dante moved us immediately to a secure apartment in the city.

The Penthouse.

It was a fortress of steel-reinforced doors and bulletproof glass.

"It's safer here," he said.

He had furnished the bedroom in my favorite colors: pale blue and cream.

It looked like a magazine spread.

But it felt like a prison cell.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"It's fine," I said.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

My crutches leaned against the wall, cold and alien.

The intercom buzzed, slicing through the silence.

Dante checked the security monitor.

"It's Sofia," he said.

My stomach turned violently.

"Why is she here?"

"Her penthouse was compromised in the storm too," Dante said, his eyes avoiding mine. "The security system failed. She can't stay there alone. It's not safe."

"There are hotels," I said, my voice rising. "There are safe houses."

"She needs... supervision," Dante insisted. "She's still traumatized from the crash."

"The crash?"

"The plane crash she reported on," he said. "Vicarious trauma."

I laughed.

I couldn't help it; the sound scraped my throat.

"Vicarious trauma," I repeated, the words tasting like ash. "I have metal pins in my leg and a dead child in my chart, and she has *vicarious trauma*."

"Elena, be kind," he said sharply. "She is family."

He buzzed her in.

Sofia entered trailing three Louis Vuitton suitcases.

She was wearing Dante's suit jacket over her shoulders.

It swallowed her small frame, making her look fragile, dependent.

"Elena!" she cried. "Oh my god, your leg! It looks so cumbersome."

She didn't ask how I was.

She commented on the aesthetic of my injury.

"The guest room is down the hall," Dante said.

"Thank you, Dante," she said, her voice dropping to a purr. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

She breezed into the kitchen.

"I'm going to make risotto!" she announced. "To say thank you."

Dante followed her.

I sat in the living room, paralyzed.

I listened to them.

I heard the clatter of pans.

I heard Dante laugh.

A real laugh.

Deep and throaty.

He never laughed with me.

With me, he was silent. Efficient.

With her, he was a man.

"Pass the wine, Dante," Sofia giggled, light and unburdened.

"Careful with the knife, *piccola*," he said gently.

That word broke me.

I stood up.

I took my crutches.

I went to the bedroom.

I pulled a duffel bag from the closet.

I didn't pack clothes.

I packed my passport.

My medical license.

My stash of cash.

My allergy medication.

I found an old newspaper clipping in the drawer.

A photo of Dante and me at our wedding.

We were standing three feet apart.

He was looking at his watch.

I was looking at him.

I crumpled the photo in my fist.

I threw it in the trash can.

I zipped the bag.

It was light.

Five years of marriage, and everything I actually owned fit in a gym bag.

I hobbled to the living room.

Dante and Sofia were plating the risotto.

They looked like a couple.

A happy, domestic couple.

"I'm leaving," I said.

Dante looked up, a fork halfway to his mouth.

"What? You can't leave. The security protocol—"

"I'm not leaving the apartment," I lied, my face a mask of calm. "I'm going to the pharmacy. I need painkillers."

"I'll send a guard," Dante said.

"No," I said. "I need to walk. The doctor said I need to keep the blood flowing."

"I'll drive you," he said.

"Eat your risotto," I said. "It will get cold."

He hesitated.

He looked at Sofia.

She looked sad, pouting slightly. "Please stay, Dante. I hate eating alone."

He looked at me.

"Take the driver," he said. "Be back in twenty minutes."

"Okay," I said.

I walked to the door.

I didn't look back.

I got into the elevator.

I went down to the garage.

The driver, Marco, was waiting.

"Pharmacy, Mrs. Cavallaro?"

"No," I said. "The airport."

"Boss said—"

"The Boss is eating risotto with his mistress," I said flatly. "Drive, Marco. Or I will tell Dante exactly who scraped the paint off the Bentley last week."

Marco paled.

He drove.

Halfway to the airport, his phone rang.

He answered it on speaker.

"Marco! Where is she?" Dante's voice. Pure panic.

"We are... on the way back, Boss," Marco lied. He liked me. He hated Sofia.

"Get back here now," Dante shouted. "Sofia and I... we are going to the safe house near the border. She needs fresh air."

"Yes, Boss."

Marco hung up.

"He's taking her to the border?" I asked.

"The cliff road," Marco said grimly. "It's dangerous at night."

I looked out the window.

It had started to rain.

Ten minutes later, Marco's radio crackled.

"All units. Code Black. The Boss's car. It went off the cliff. Mile marker 4."

Marco slammed on the brakes.

"Jesus Christ."

"Is he alive?" I asked.

My voice was steady, unnatural.

"Critical," the dispatcher's voice said through the static. "Both passengers critical."

Marco looked at me in the rearview mirror.

"To the hospital, Ma'am?"

I looked at my duffel bag.

I looked at the rain streaking the glass.

"Yes," I said. "To the hospital."

Not to save him.

But to sign the papers.

I wanted him to see me leave.

I wanted him to be awake when I walked out the door.

I wanted him to know that this time, no one was coming to dig him out of the rubble.