Kneeling in front of the computer, staring at the damning video files, I took out my phone and dialed Don Romano’s number.

“Father,” I said, my voice thick with unshed tears.

“What is it? I thought you were disowning me,” his voice was cold and surprised.

“I just have one question. Three years ago, did Vincent offer to discipline me?”

There were a few seconds of telling silence on the other end of the line.

“How did you know?”

I closed my eyes. “So it’s true.”

“Vincent offered me a two-hundred-million-dollar port project in exchange for the chance to take you under his wing,” Don Romano’s voice was mercilessly pragmatic. “I didn’t know how you’d offended him, but I figured a little education wouldn’t hurt you. So I agreed.”

I hung up.

The last sliver of hope I didn’t even know I was holding onto was gone.

Vincent got close to me, slept with me, controlled me—it was all for revenge. For Isabella.

I started to laugh again. Quietly at first, then louder and louder, a hysterical sound that filled the sterile, secret room.

I laughed until the tears came, until I couldn’t breathe.

When I was finally spent, I wiped my eyes and stood up.

I went to the master bedroom and pulled out the suitcase I had already packed.

From the nightstand drawer, I took my passport and the plane ticket to Boston.

Goodbye, to the girl I used to be.

Half an hour later, the wail of fire trucks filled the affluent neighborhood.

I sat on my suitcase on the sidewalk across the street, watching it all unfold.

The flames licked at the night sky, turning it a hellish red.

Soon, a black car screeched to a halt. Vincent jumped out, his face turning to a mask of stone as he saw the inferno that was once his home.

He looked around frantically, his eyes searching, and they finally landed on me.

“Sophia!” he yelled, running toward me. “Are you hurt?!”

I just looked at him, silent.