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A sharp pang of unease coils in my chest as I sit up, scanning the dimly lit room. Her nightgown lays on the floor where I stripped it off of her. The closet door is slightly ajar. The lamp on her nightstand is still on, casting a golden glow across the bed.

My gut twists. I try not to let my mind wander too far. Maybe she’s just downstairs in her studio, sketching out the storm in her chest—waiting for me to come and talk to her.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stand quickly, my heart slamming against my ribs. I scan the room again, looking for anything, any sign, of where she might have gone.

Then I see it.

A folded piece of paper, placed neatly by the lamp. I snatch it up, my fingers tightening around the edges as I unfold it.

Some things can’t be undone, Matteo. And I don’t know how to be whole in your world anymore. I need to remember who I was before you. Please… let me go. Before I forget how to breathe without you. Before I forget what you took from me. —M

The breath I take is sharp, my pulse roaring in my ears.

“No, no, no!” The desperation in my tone is evident. I grab my phone from the nightstand and immediately call her.

“Hi, you’ve reached Maria Davacalli. Please leave a message after the?—”

Straight to voicemail.

My jaw clenches so tightly it aches. I try again. The same thing—voicemail. A cold rush of panic floods my veins. I pull at my hair, feeling like the world is closing in on me.

I dial a different number, one I haven’t called since the wedding.

“Fuck.” I sit on the edge of the bed and wait.

“Davacalli. Bit late for a call in your time zone.” Maria’s father’s voice is sharp, clipped—no room for pleasantries. “You have three seconds to explain what you’ve done.”

“Where is she?”

There’s a pause. A measured silence that grates against my already fraying nerves.

“My daughter,” he says slowly, as if the word itself is a correction. “She’s coming home. And now I get to ask—what did you do? I told you not to hurt her. Are you incapable of even that small task?”

A muscle ticks in my jaw. “Italy? She’s flying back to Italy?”

His voice is clipped, a warning beneath his tone. “My wife received a message from her earlier. I sent another, but she hasn’t responded yet.”

I inhale through my nose, forcing my rage back. “And when was that?”

“About three hours ago.”

The pit in my stomach deepens. Three hours?

“Did she say anything else?” My grip tightens around the phone. “What flight is she going to take? Did she tell you when she was boarding?”

There’s another pause, and that does nothing to ease the panic that riddles my bones.

“She never confirmed whether she boarded a flight,” he finally says. “Or what flight she was taking. I was going to tell her to wait a few hours for our jet so she could travel more comfortably, but she never responded. I just assumed she was already in the air.”

My breath comes out slow, controlled. But inside, a storm is raging. Something is very, very wrong here. I can feel it right down to the marrow of my bones. It’s an unsettling feeling, one I felt when I first found Beatrice lying on the floor, unconscious.

I pull the phone away from my ear and switch screens. I tap into the tracker I had placed on Maria’s car, watching as the signal pinpoints her last known location.

JFK. The car’s at the airport—but if she’s not answering her father, maybe she never boarded a flight at all.

The thought twists in my gut. Why wouldn’t she? I don’t even want to think about it. All I know is I need to find her.

I put the phone back to my ear. “She never got on a flight.”