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“And what about abandoning us?” The question came out raw, desperate. “What about abandoning our son? What about abandoning me?”

She flinched like I’d struck her. “I’m not abandoning you. I’m coming back.”

“You’re lying.” I could see it in her eyes, could see the truth she was trying to hide from both of us. “You’re lying to yourself, and you’re lying to me. You know you’re not coming back.”

“I am!” She was sobbing now, her whole body shaking. “I promise, I’ll come back. I just need a few days. Just a few days to see him, to make sure he’s okay, to⁠—”

“He’s not going to be okay.” The words were brutal, but they needed to be said. “Sinclair said it’s bad. Internal bleeding. Even if he survives the surgery, he might not wake up. And if he does, he might not be the same. You could be waiting by his bedside for days, weeks, and your father will be right there, working on you, breaking you down, reminding you of every obligation you’ve ever had to that family.”

“Stop it.” She pressed her hands to her ears. “Stop it, please.”

But I couldn’t stop. Because I could see it happening, could see the future unfolding like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

“He’ll tell you that your mother needs you,” I continued, my voice relentless. “That she’s falling apart without you. That you’re being selfish, choosing your own ambition, your own selfishness over your family. He’ll make you feel guilty for every moment of happiness you’ve taken for yourself. He’ll make you feel like you owe them something—your presence, your obedience, your life.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“And you’ll believe him.” I could feel tears burning in my eyes now, could feel everything I’d built crumbling around me. “Because part of you has always believed him. Part of you has always thought you didn’t deserve this. That you didn’t deserve to be happy. That you didn’t deserve to be free.”

“That’s not true,” she whispered, but there was no conviction in it.

“Isn’t it?” I shifted Henry to one arm and reached for her with the other, gripping her shoulder. “Look at me. Look at me and tell me I’m wrong.”

She looked up, and the devastation in her eyes confirmed everything I’d feared.

She knew.

She knew she wasn’t coming back, and she was going anyway.

“I have to go,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I’m sorry, Salvatore. I’m so sorry. But I have to go.”

I dropped my hand, feeling something inside me shatter.

“Then go,” I said, my voice hollow. “Pack your bags and go.”

She stared at me for a long moment, tears streaming down her face in silent rivers that carved paths through her pale skin, and I could see her breaking apart right in front of me. Her eyes, usually so bright and full of life, were hollow now, emptied of everything except pain. The muscles in her jaw trembled as she fought to maintain some semblance of composure, but I watched as, piece by piece, she shattered. Then, without a word, she turned and walked into the bedroom, her shoulders hunched forward as if carrying an unbearable weight.

I stood in the living room, holding our son tightly against my chest, listening to the sounds of her packing. Each drawer that opened, each item of clothing that rustled, each zipper that closed—it all felt like nails being driven into a coffin. The metallic scrape of hangers against the closet rod. The soft thud of shoes being tossed into a bag. The quiet, desperate sounds of a life being dismantled, one piece at a time.

Our coffin.

The life we’d built together was ending, crumbling into dust and ashes, and I was powerless to stop it. I wanted to run to her, to beg, to promise I’d change everything, but my feet felt rooted to the floor. My arms held Henry, but the rest of me was paralyzed by the gravity of what was happening.

Henry woke up fully and started to fuss, his tiny fists pushing against my chest, his face scrunching up in confusion and discomfort. I bounced him gently, pressing my face against his soft hair, breathing in his baby scent—that unique, irreplaceable smell that belonged only to him. He smelled like Madigan—like the lavender soap she used in his baths, like milk and innocence and everything good in the world. Everything I was losing.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to him, my voice cracking, barely audible even in the quiet house. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep us together. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect this. I’m sorry you’re going to grow up in a broken home because of me.”

Madigan emerged from the bedroom twenty minutes later, though it felt like hours had passed. She carried a small bag in her hand—just one bag, as if she couldn’t bear to take more, as if taking more would make it too real. Her face was blotchy and swollen from crying, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, her nose pink. She’d changed into traveling clothes—jeans and a navy-blue sweater that I’d always loved on her, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that exposed the elegant curve of her neck.

She looked so young standing there in the doorway.

So vulnerable. So utterly destroyed.

So much like the girl I first met in her father’s office all those months ago, terrified and trying so hard to be brave, putting on a mask of confidence that didn’t quite hide the fear underneath.

“I called for a car,” she whispered. “It’ll be here in ten minutes to take me to the airport.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. My throat felt tight, constricted, like someone had wrapped their hands around it and was slowly squeezing. If I opened my mouth, I knew what would come out—a scream, a plea, something raw and animal that I wouldn’t be able to take back.