The car was steeped in silence, its engine humming like a restless beast as it cut through the night. Shadows from passing streetlights slid across the windshield, dividing their faces into shards of light and darkness.
"So," his voice finally broke the hush, smooth yet edged with mockery, "shall we continue our conversation, my dear wife?"
He cast her a sidelong glance, a smile tugging at his lips—too calculated to be genuine.
She turned her head slowly, her eyes narrowing. "You speak," she said coolly, "as if I have any other choice. Tell me, though—how does one drive a car while pressing a gun against their bride at the same time?"
His chuckle was dry, humorless. "Practice, darling. Practice—and the scar on my forehead has taught me never to trust you."
Her gaze flicked to the faint wound etched above his brow, the reminder of some earlier betrayal. She allowed herself a bitter smile. "You deserved it."
The barrel of the pistol pressed harder into her side. His tone sharpened, the mockery vanishing. "Careful. Do not test my patience. And tell me—was the police station really the best place you could think to run? I had credited you with more intelligence than that."
"Perhaps you should close your mouth and watch the damn road," she snapped. "You nearly hit that car a moment ago. Do you plan to murder your bride on the very first night?"
He gave a soft laugh, eyes flicking back to the road before returning to her with a predator's smile. "So you admit it. You signed that contract willingly, knowing exactly what it entailed."
A shadow crossed her face, but she met his gaze head-on. "Yes. I knew."
He leaned closer, his voice silk over steel. "Tell me, then… is Elena even your real name? I searched your past, combed through records—and found nothing. A ghost bride, hiding behind smoke."
She swallowed, her voice flat as winter air. "Yes. That is my real name."
His brow arched. "You're a doctor, aren't you?"
The words hit her like a blade. Her eyes widened. "How… how did you—?"
"I do my research." His smirk held no warmth. "But that leaves me wondering—why marry me at all? Why entangle yourself in my life?"
For the first time, her composure cracked. Her shoulders trembled, and tears welled unbidden in her eyes. She turned away, her voice breaking as the truth bled out.
"My mother… she's gravely ill. My father—paralyzed. They depend on me for everything. I… I'm their only support." A sob slipped through her throat, ragged and raw. "But I lost my job. I've been reduced to decorating homes, scraping pennies, when I should be practicing medicine. I thought—" her voice fractured, her tears streaking down her cheeks—"I thought you were a wealthy man. That marrying you would mean I could save them… even if it cost me everything.
His gaze lingered on her with an expression that almost resembled sorrow. Slowly, he lowered the gun and slipped it into the car's glove compartment. Then, with surprising tenderness, he reached across the space between them, brushing aside the damp strands of hair clinging to her tear-streaked face. His eyes locked with hers, probing, searching.
"But… you're an orphan," he murmured, his voice low and edged with disbelief. "What parents are you speaking of?"
She blinked, startled, her lips parting in shock. Then, despite herself, she gave a breathless laugh. "Ah, you really are impossible to escape from, aren't you?"
Her hand darted forward to seize the steering wheel, wrestling it with him in a reckless game of defiance. Their argument, sharp and rapid, ricocheted through the confined space of the car. In their struggle, neither noticed how the vehicle veered off course.
The world turned into a blur of headlights and shrieking tires. In an instant, the car lurched violently, flipping over, metal screaming against asphalt. Gravity betrayed them—one moment upright, the next, dangling upside down, their bodies trapped in a tangle of seatbelts while fuel dripped steadily from the ruptured tank.
The acrid stench of gasoline thickened the air, followed by the hungry crackle of flames. Fire spread greedily along the shattered frame, licking closer with each second.
Elena gasped, fighting to release the seatbelt cutting into her ribs. Her trembling fingers worked the clasp until at last it gave way, sending her crashing painfully onto the car's ceiling. She dragged herself out, her movements sluggish, disoriented. Smoke burned her throat as she crawled into the night air, the inferno blazing at her back.
She staggered to her feet, vision swimming, body crying out for rest. She should run—run now, while there was still time. Yet guilt twisted inside her chest. Luca had saved her once—from Carlos, from prison. And though she had tried to kill him—twice, no less—could she really abandon him now to the flames?
Her conscience won. Limping, her injured leg slowing her steps, she turned back toward the wreck. But when her blurred sight adjusted, her heart jolted. The driver's seat was empty.
Before she could process, a strong hand yanked her violently downward, dragging her over the edge of the embankment. She landed hard, breath stolen from her lungs, as a solid weight pressed her against the cold earth. Luca's body shielded hers, his embrace fierce, desperate.
A thunderous explosion split the night sky. The car erupted behind them, a fireball of orange and red consuming the wreckage, raining sparks onto the asphalt.
Elena opened her eyes slowly, only to find herself staring into a pair of sharp, emerald-green eyes fixed on her with unnerving intensity.
"Hey," his voice was rough, breathless, "are you alright?"
Her mind reeled. This man—the one she had fled from, the one she had sworn to kill—had just thrown himself over her, shielding her with his own body. Words failed her; her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Darkness tugged at the edges of her vision.
A sudden sting snapped her back. His palm had struck her cheek. "Don't you dare fall asleep now. You're bleeding."
"Yes… you're right," she whispered, dazed, pressing her hand to the heat of her wound. Her eyes flickered downward, and horror flushed her cheeks. The thin nightdress she had worn during her escape was in tatters, fabric shredded, her body shamefully exposed.
She scrambled to cover herself, but Luca was already stripping off his coat. Without hesitation, he wrapped it around her shoulders, his tone brusque, commanding. "What are you doing? You're half-naked. Unless you prefer to stay like this in the middle of the road?"
Her face flamed. "Of course not—I didn't mean—"
"Then wear it," he cut her off, voice tired but unyielding.
She obeyed in silence, clutching the coat tightly around her. His breathing was heavy, strained, but his grip on control never faltered. "We wait here. Enzo will come for us soon."
As the fire raged behind them and the night closed in, Luca pulled his gun once more, the gleam of the weapon sharp in the dim light. He leveled it at her with a gesture that was almost routine, almost casual—as if pointing a weapon at her was as natural as breathing.
"Now," he said, his eyes narrowing, "do you care to explain what you were trying to do back there?"