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That night, Dante drove to Linda's place in Brooklyn. When she opened the door, she smirked.

"Well. If it isn't the life-debt IVF king. What, looking for your next donor recipient?"

He ignored it. "Where's Nina?"

"How the hell should I know?" Linda rolled her eyes and moved to slam the door.

He shoved his hand out to block it. The door slammed against his fingers. He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes watering, and refused to move.

"Tell me where she went."

Linda laughed, wild. "You got another woman pregnant and now you're looking for Nina? Dante. Have some goddamn shame."

His voice stayed flat. "Isobel has cancer. She saved my life. I just wanted to help her leave something behind. Nothing more."

"Saved your life?" Linda's eyes cut straight through him. "Get it straight. Nina saved your life."

He froze.

"What did you say?"

Linda flicked out a stack of photos and thrust them at him. Five-year-old images. Nina on a gurney, being wheeled into an OR, her face drained of color, blood spreading down her side.

"Chicago. That night. The one who actually dragged you out was her. She took a bullet. She almost didn't wake up. You opened your eyes and saw Isobel sitting there, and decided she must be your guardian angel? Jesus Christ."

Dante's brain went white.

He remembered that night—attacked on the street, a blurred figure pulling him up. Then, consciousness: Isobel at his bedside. He'd never questioned it.

"Nina never told you," Linda said, her eyes bright and furious, "because she didn't want you to feel indebted. She didn't want to trap you with it. And you—you put that gratitude on the wrong person. Then used someone else's body as a bargaining chip. You're disgusting."

He stumbled out like he'd been struck by lightning.