Rafe didn't go back into the ballroom.
He took the service stairs two at a time, jaw locked, pulse pounding with a violence that had nothing to do with the streets. Ending things should have been simple. Clean. He'd done harder things without blinking.
But this—
This felt like cutting off a limb and pretending it wouldn't bleed.
Outside, the night wrapped around him, sharp and unforgiving. He pulled out his phone and stared at Lena's name until the screen dimmed.
I'll fix it, he'd said.
So he called her.
"Where are you?" Lena asked immediately. "You disappeared."
"I'm outside," he said. "We need to talk."
There was a pause. "Now?"
"Yes."
Minutes later, Lena stepped onto the quiet side terrace, wrapping her shawl tighter around herself. She smiled when she saw him—automatic, hopeful.
Rafe didn't return it.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He didn't soften it. Couldn't. "This isn't working."
Her smile faltered. "What?"
"We're not—" He exhaled hard. "I can't keep doing this."
Lena laughed once, brittle. "Is this about Isabella?"
"No," he said too fast.
Her eyes sharpened. "You didn't even hesitate."
Silence stretched, heavy and damning.
"You promised me," she whispered. "You said you were all in."
"I meant it," Rafe said. "But meaning something doesn't make it right."
Her voice cracked. "So you're just… done?"
Rafe nodded once. "I won't lie to you anymore."
Tears slipped free, catching in the lights. "So you'll lie to her instead?"
The words hit harder than any punch.
Before he could answer, a voice cut through the night.
"Lena?"
Isabella stood frozen at the terrace doors.
She hadn't meant to follow him. Hadn't meant to hear anything. But the truth had a way of finding its way into the open.
Lena turned slowly. Her expression collapsed into something raw and wounded.
"You," she breathed.
Isabella's chest tightened. "Lena, I—"
"Don't," Lena snapped. "Just don't."
Her gaze flicked between them, connecting every look, every silence she'd ignored.
"Oh," she said softly. "Oh."
Rafe stepped forward. "This is on me."
Lena laughed, tears spilling freely now. "Of course it is. You always protect her."
Isabella shook her head. "That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Lena demanded. "You walk into rooms and he forgets I exist. You lie to my face and tell me nothing's wrong."
"I never wanted this," Isabella said, voice breaking. "I never touched him after that night. I swear."
Lena stilled. "After… what night?"
The air went deadly quiet.
Rafe closed his eyes.
Isabella realized too late what she'd done.
Lena's face drained of color. "You kissed him."
It wasn't a question.
Isabella's throat closed. "Lena—"
"My best friend," Lena whispered. "And you kissed my boyfriend."
Rafe reached for Lena, but she stepped back like his touch burned.
"Don't," she said. "Both of you—don't."
She turned and ran, heels echoing down the marble corridor, leaving silence and ruin behind her.
The fallout was immediate.
By Monday morning, St. Aldrich felt different.
Whispers followed Isabella through the halls. Looks lingered too long. Lena sat with her friends, eyes red, refusing to look her way.
Rafe didn't attend classes that day,
That afternoon, the streets answered back.
Nico found Rafe in the warehouse, breathless. "Kane knows about the gala. About the girl."
Rafe's blood went cold. "Which one?"
Nico's look said everything.
"The blonde."
Rafe grabbed his jacket. "Lock down Kingsbridge. No one touches her."
Because the secret was out.
The love had been named.
And now the streets were ready to collect their price.
Isabella didn't notice the black SUV at first.
New York was full of dark cars and darker intentions.
She was used to being followed by security, by drivers, by eyes that belonged to her father's world. So when the vehicle slowed near the curb as she exited the boutique on Madison Avenue, she barely glanced up.
That was her first mistake.
The second came when her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You look better in silk than you do in lies.
Her breath caught.
She stopped walking.
The SUV's window rolled down just enough to reveal a man inside mid-forties, sharply dressed, salt-and-pepper hair slicked back with deliberate care. His face was handsome in a dangerous way, all sharp angles and calm confidence. A thin scar traced the corner of his mouth, like a smile that had learned cruelty early.
His eyes were pale. Assessing. Amused.
"Miss Sinclair," he said smoothly. "Victor Kane."
Isabella's pulse roared in her ears. "I don't know you."
Kane smiled wider. "You know of me."
She took a step back. "If this is about my father—"
"This has nothing to do with Charles Sinclair," Kane interrupted gently. "This is about Rafael Moretti."
The name landed like a gunshot.
Kane stepped out of the SUV, tailored coat immaculate, movements unhurried. He smelled faintly of expensive cologne and smoke.
"I admire loyalty," he continued. "It's rare. Your presence in Rafe's life tells me he's forgotten where he comes from."
"I don't belong to him," Isabella said, forcing steel into her voice.
Kane tilted his head. "That's not what he told the streets."