Chapter 3

The research fellowship in Switzerland would last for four years. The director had emailed twice already, eager for me to start by fall. Four years abroad. Far from Dante. Far from Bianca. I sent "Accept" before I could overthink it.

Last night played on repeat in my mind. I'd actually considered—just one last time—initiating something with Dante. A final memory to take with me. But he'd spent the evening with Bianca, probably whispering sweet nothings under the moon.

That's the difference between love and...whatever this is.

What I couldn't understand was how a man could feign desire so convincingly for someone he didn't love. To prevent a repeat of last night's humiliation, I decided to clear out my things today. Three weeks until the divorce was finalized. Three weeks of avoiding this house.

Most of my life was already at campus housing—just one suitcase of clothes here. The only personal item was the photo album in the nightstand.

I flipped through the thick leather cover. Every month like clockwork, I'd dragged Dante to a photo studio. Me smiling like an idiot. Him stiff as a statue, looking anywhere but at the camera.

The album landed in the trash bin with a thud. Even the recycling truck wouldn't want this tainted love story.

For years, I'd been an audience member in Dante Moretti's life. Now the curtain had fallen. Time to make my exit.

The next two weeks blurred with thesis revisions and lab work. I barely thought of Dante—until his call interrupted my Friday research meeting.

"I'm outside your lab," his voice crackled through the phone.

Since when did Dante Moretti play chauffeur?

His black sedan idled at the curb. I slid into the leather seat, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne and gun oil.

"You haven't been home." His eyes stayed on the road.

"Lab's busy."

"Good." His fingers tapped the steering wheel. "Bianca thought you were avoiding her. She's moving out next month—says it's 'inappropriate' now."

I yawned. "Tell her not to bother. I don't care."

Dante' grip tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles paling to bone-white. A flicker of surprise crossed his face. He opened his mouth—probably to praise my "maturity"—but stopped when he noticed my closed eyes.

I feigned sleep to avoid conversation, but the exhaustion was real. For the first time in years, my dreams weren't about him.

Ten days until Switzerland.

I stood in the supermarket aisle, staring at the dried hawthorn slices in my hand. I hadn't eaten these since childhood, but lately my stomach churned at everything else. My recent period had also been delayed.

The pregnancy test confirmed my fears.

"twelve weeks along," the doctor said cheerfully. "Congratulations!"

I nearly laughed. Twelve weeks. That meant it happened during Dante' and my last time together—right before Bianca returned.

My hands shook as I dialed Dante' number. At twenty-four, facing this alone terrified me—

A familiar ringtone echoed down the hallway.

Dante stood twenty feet away, his black coat draped over Bianca's shoulders as she whispered something that made him smile. I hung up and ducked into the stairwell.

"—avoid strenuous activity," the doctor's voice carried through the cracked door. "And no intercourse for two months."

Bianca was pregnant too.

"I'll make sure she rests," Dante said, that tender tone I rarely heard.

I shot out of the stairwell like a bullet, desperate to escape, only to crash straight into a nurse carrying medical charts. The papers went flying as we collided, creating just enough noise to draw attention from down the hall.

Dante emerged from the examination room just in time to see me scrambling to help pick up the scattered documents, my face burning with the effort to appear composed.

"Elena ?" He frowned, stepping forward. "Why are you here?"

"Stomachache." I crumpled the ultrasound slip in my pocket.

Bianca materialized beside him, clutching her own scan. "Dante told me you skip meals." She patted his arm. "We should get her some ginger tea."

I couldn't tear my eyes away from the ultrasound photo in Bianca's hand. The grainy black-and-white image seemed to pulse under the harsh hospital lights.

Dante' face went pale. "Elena , let me expl—"

"Dante!" Bianca's fingers dug into his sleeve like claws, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "We talked about this."

I saw the conflict play out across his face, the way his muscles tensed, how his hand twitched before curling into a fist.

Then Bianca pressed her cheek against his shoulder, whispering something that made him freeze. His arm dropped to his side like a dead weight.

I turned away before they could see my face crumple. Behind me, I heard Dante take a half-step forward—

"Dante!" Bianca's voice turned sharp. "You promised."

The elevator doors closed on the image of my husband standing frozen between two women, his eyes locked on me with something that almost looked like regret.

Outside, winter air slapped my face. The research acceptance letter lay buried at the bottom of my backpack. Four years. A groundbreaking study. A life far from this mess.

And now—a baby.

My hand rested on my stomach—still flat, but everything had changed. The sidewalk stretched endlessly in both directions.

For the first time in my life, I had nowhere to go.