The night Elena Voss learned love could destroy her was the same night she met Adrian Hale.
Rain battered the hospital windows, relentless and loud, like a warning no one was listening to.
Elena stood outside the emergency ward, hands still stained with blood. Not hers—but it clung to her like it was. The smell of antiseptic did nothing to drown out the memory of twisted metal, shattered glass, and that final, broken scream.
Her husband had been in that car.
So had the woman he chose over her.
Only one survived.
Elena didn’t cry.
Not when the doctor spoke in careful tones.
Not when the nurses avoided her eyes.
Not even when she saw the chart—critical condition beside his name, deceased beside hers.
Instead, something colder settled in.
Clarity.
Love wasn’t here to save her.
It
