Too Late To Love: The Don's Dying Wife

The morning sun was an assault. It glared off the pristine drifts of snow, piercing my eyes like shards of glass.

I stepped out of the lobby of my apartment building, in want of fresh air.

I needed to feel something other than the lingering imprint of Dante's teeth on my neck.

The moment my boot hit the pavement, the world was rent by a volley of flashing lights.

Cameras. Dozens of them. They swarmed the entrance like vultures spotting a carcass.

I froze.

Usually, the guards kept them back. But this morning, the men were sluggish, their movements uncertain.

Maybe they had seen the news, too. Maybe they knew I was falling out of favor and therefore no longer worthy of their protection.

"Mrs. Cavallaro! Over here!"

"Is it true Dante spent the night with Sofia?"

"Are you getting a divorce?"

The questions were bullets. I pulled my coat tighter.

A young woman pushed her way to the front, brandishing a microphone like a weapon.

I recognized her at once. Jessica. Sofia's friend from university.

"Elena!" she called out. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the din. "How does it feel to be the third wheel in a true love story?"

The crowd quieted down. They wanted blood.

I looked at her. She was smiling—the cruel, triumphant arc of her mouth.

"Sofia says you trapped him," Jessica continued, advancing on me. "She says you used a contract to steal a man who belongs to her. Do you have any shame?"

I felt a familiar pressure in my sinuses.

Not now.

Please, not now.

I tried to step around her, to no avail; she blocked my path.

"Answer the question! Are you just holding on for the money? Is that why you look so haggard? Is the guilt eating you alive?" She shoved the microphone into my face. It struck my cheek.

The impact was light, but it was enough. The dam broke.

I felt the warmth before I saw it. A thick, hot liquid gushed from my nose. It dripped over my lips.

It splashed onto the microphone. It stained the snow on the collar of my white coat a stark, arterial red.

The crowd gasped. Camera shutters clicked furiously, capturing the spectacle of my ruin.

Jessica recoiled, looking at the blood on her equipment with disgust.

"Ew," she said, her own lip curling in revulsion. "That's disgusting. Stop acting for sympathy."

I reached into my pocket for a tissue. I didn't have one.

I used my gloved hand to wipe my face, which only served to smear the red across my pale skin.

I looked at Jessica. My vision was blurring at the edges.

"I'm not acting," I said. "I'm dying."

Jessica rolled her eyes.

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "That's the oldest trick in the book. You're pathetic."

"Gold digger."

"When he was poor, you dumped him. Now that he's rich, you married him."

I didn't argue. I didn't have the energy to convince her.

I just turned around and walked back into the building, leaving a trail of red drops on the marble floor.