The night air was heavy with silence, broken only by the ticking of an old grandfather clock that hung in the hallway. The Salvadore mansion seemed more like a museum after dark—vast, hollow, haunted by the weight of its own setting. Rose had managed to eat a quiet dinner alone, avoiding both Dante and his mother. Now, wrapped in a soft robe, she stood by her bedroom mirror, slowly undoing her hair. She just wanted to just go to sleep in peace.
A knock came. This time, not insistent. Quiet. Controlled.
She didn't respond. Not immediately.
The door opened anyway.
Dante stepped inside, his expression unreadable. He wore a navy shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a trace of fatigue could be noticed beneath his sharp features. He looked less like a mafia prince and more like a man who hadn't decided who he was anymore.
"Do you ever wait to be invited?" Rose asked, turning back to the mirror.
"We need to talk."
"Now?"
He shut the door behind him. "Yes. Now."
She turned slowly, crossing her arms over her chest. "What is it, Dante? More lectures about 'respecting the family'?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked around her room—its untouched wardrobe, her suitcase still half-unpacked, the books on the nightstand she never had time to read.
"I won't force you, I already told you this" he said at last, voice low. "But it's time you start carrying out your filial duties."
Rose blinked. "Filial duties? Did you time-travel from the 1800s?" She said, covering her mouth while laughing.
"You're my wife now," he said calmly. "We agreed on fidelity and loyalty. I could easily get it somewhere else but I don't feel like it."
She walked past him, her robe whispering across the floor. "Let me guess. That means being quiet, smiling on cue, birthing heirs, and not embarrassing your ancestors is what it takes to be your wife? Wow what a life I signed up for."
"It means playing your part, Rose. I'm not asking you to give up who you are, but there are expectations. Appearances matter. My mother—"
"Your mother probably loathes me."
"No she doesn't." Dante replied irritated by how she hadn't noticed his mother's sympathy for her.
"She called my job inappropriate. She said ambition doesn't belong in this house."
Dante exhaled. "She has her ways. And so do I. I'm not asking for perfection. But you can't live here and act like you're not part of this family."
"Why do you care so much about appearances? About this fake loyalty and false smiles?" Rose's voice cracked slightly. "This wasn't a marriage. It was a transaction. You needed something. I was forced."
He moved closer. "And yet you're here. And you're my wife. And I'm getting absolutely nothing. Do you think I brought you in here just so you could know how to move houses?"
"In name only," she said bitterly.
"That will change."
She looked up at him. "Are you asking me to sleep with you now, too? As part of these duties?"
His jaw tightened. "I said I wouldn't force you."
They stared at each other. Her eyes brimming with heat and rebellion. He was full of frustration and something deeper—something that looked like it hurt.
"You don't get to dictate when I start being a good wife, Dante. You haven't even figured out how to be a decent husband."
That landed like a slap.
He stepped back. The wall between them, invisible yet immovable, grew thicker.
"You'll never understand," he said softly. "This world... it doesn't give people like us the luxury of freedom. Everything is a negotiation. A power play. Even love."
"Then I want no part of it," she replied.
He nodded slowly, gaze dark. "Then maybe we shouldn't pretend. Maybe this marriage stays just as it is. Paper. Nothing more."
"Maybe that's best."
The silence stretched. Then he turned to leave.
Just before the door closed, he said without looking back, "Don't expect protection for your family if you're not willing to be part of this family."
She watched the door close.
And for the first time that night, she felt cold.
Sleep didn't come easily. When it did, it was dreamless, heavy.
The next morning, Rose dressed quietly and left the mansion early. She didn't eat breakfast. She didn't tell anyone where she was going. It felt like the only power she had left.
The hospital greeted her like an old friend. Nurses waved, and a few doctors nodded in recognition. Here, she was someone. Not a pawn.
She went straight to check on a child she'd been treating for pneumonia. Then she reviewed medication logs for post-op patients. There was a moment of comfort as she walked down the corridor with a clipboard, her heels clicking softly against the floor.
That comfort vanished an hour later.
She had just returned to the nurse's station when she saw the look on Nurse Olivia's face. Tight. Pale.
"Doctor Rose," she said. "You might want to come to Room 214."
Rose followed quickly, heart beginning to race.
Inside the room, a patient—Mrs. Vivian, an elderly woman recovering from minor surgery—was seizing.
Dera, the young intern assigned to the room, stood frozen by the bedside, an empty syringe in her hand.
"What happened?" Rose demanded.
Dera stammered. "I-I administered her dose like the chart said."
"She wasn't due for medication until noon," Rose snapped, grabbing the chart.
It had been altered.
"Get the crash cart. Now!"
They worked fast. Stabilized her. But the damage had been done.
Mrs. Vivian was unconscious, unresponsive.
Later, as Rose washed her hands at the sink, her gloves smeared with iodine and sweat, Dera came up behind her.
"I swear I didn't change the chart. I just followed orders. I... I thought it was updated."
"Go get some air," Rose said quietly.
But her stomach twisted. Something was wrong.
An hour later, HR called her into an office. So did hospital administration.
Someone had filed a report.
The chart was altered under Rose's login.
And Dera had told the board that Rose gave the verbal go-ahead.
"What? No, I didn't authorize that dose," Rose said, eyes wide.
The administrator looked at her coldly. "Unfortunately, Dr. Salvadore, we're required to begin a formal investigation. Effective immediately, you are suspended pending inquiry."
The words hit her like a freight train.
She was being framed.
Framed for a near-fatal medical error.
And whoever did it knew exactly how to strike.
Right at the thing she loved most.
Her identity.
Her purpose.
Her career.
Her breath caught in her throat as the door to the office closed behind her. The hallway felt suddenly colder. The walls narrower.
Someone didn't want her at the
hospital.
Someone wanted her silenced.
And there was only one person.