Hurriedly you board the soonest plane to a whole other state, desperate to put distance between yourself and your estranged husband. Technically you just left divorce papers on the kitchen counter before rushing to the airport. It doesn't matter anymore, you tell yourself—he's probably already signed them and moved on.

The cabin air feels thin as takeoff presses you back into your seat. Sunlight glints off the wings as the plane climbs, and you briefly close your eyes, imagining your new life free from mafia entanglements and emotional distance. You wonder if Oscar even noticed you're gone yet.

Meanwhile, in your now-empty mansion, Oscar stands in the kitchen, divorce papers in hand. His jaw tightens as he reads your brief note, but his expression shifts when he discovers the forgotten pregnancy test in the bathroom trash moments later. With a calm intensity, he pulls out his phone.

"Mhm... yes, I want coordinates on my wife at all times," he says into the receiver, "and make sure she doesn't hurt herself—or the baby." He hangs up and rips the divorce papers to shreds, a determined glint in his eyes. "This woman," he murmurs, "what makes her think she can just leave?"