Rising From Ashes: The Don's Lost Queen

My feet reached the top of the stairs, and my thoughts returned to the present.

Dante stood below, his dark gaze fixed on me, trying to find a reaction to his words on my face. He found nothing.

I turned toward the master bedroom.

"Sienna," his voice was hoarse, carrying a strange sliver of hope.

I stopped, but I didn't turn back.

"Do you know what day it is?" he asked.

I stared at the closed oak door of the bedroom. If he hadn't mentioned it, I truly would have forgotten. Ever since he took Tess as his secretary, he had been "busy with business" every anniversary.

Last year, I spent three hours preparing his favorite meal and bought him the antique watch he’d been eyeing for months.

By 9:00 PM, he wasn't home. I called his private line. Tess answered, her voice sharp over the din of a noisy bar. "The boss is a little drunk right now. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him."

Dante was obsessively protective of his encrypted phone.

Early in our marriage, I had merely moved it to wipe the marble counter, and he had scolded me: civilian hands had no right to touch Syndicate business.

But Tess was allowed to answer his most secure line.

When he came home the next day, we had an earth-shattering row. He left in a rage, leaving my carefully prepared dinner to rot and the gift unopened.

Standing in the hallway now, the memory faded.

Today was our anniversary again.

I tilted my head slightly, catching his eye for a split second.

"I forgot."

His hand, halfway through loosening his tie, froze. His throat moved with effort, and his hands dropped to his sides.

"You forgot?" he repeated, the hope in his voice shattering instantly. "It’s our fifth anniversary."

I looked at his shocked expression and felt nothing. No victory, no remorse—only a vast, silent emptiness.

I pushed open the bedroom door, leaving him in the darkness below.