Barclay Hsu

The exact moment Marcus Thorne, the most violent Capo on the East Coast, chose to leave our anniversary dinner to answer his mistress's call, I didn't cry. "Business," he rumbled, ignoring the untouched meal I had cooked. "Don't cause a scene, Ellie," he commanded before walking out the door. I later found out his "business" was a polo match with Izzy. She posted a photo of them laughing, her hand on his chest, wearing the shirt I bought him. When I tried to leave, he humiliated me publicly. He kissed her on stage at a gala, just to prove he could. He told his men I was merely acting out. "Ellie is the furniture," he laughed. "You don't throw away antique furniture just because you bought a new TV." But the final blow came when a bomb detonated at a family gathering. Marcus didn't look for me. He dove to cover Izzy with his body. He actually stepped over my bleeding leg to carry her to safety, leaving me in the dust and debris. He thought I was trapped. He thought I was dependent on his money and his name. He thought I would be waiting at home when he was done playing hero. He was wrong. I signed the divorce papers, destroyed my wedding ring, and boarded a one-way flight to Italy. Three months later, when he finally tracked me down in Tuscany, he fell to his knees in the street, begging me to come back. But I just held the hand of the man standing next to me—a man who treated me like a partner, not a prop. "You are trespassing," I said coldly. "Go home, Marcus."

Everyone in the city said I was the luckiest woman alive. I was the diner waitress who saved the amnesiac tech billionaire, Hudson Scott. He fell in love with me, and when his memory returned, he married me against his family's wishes, telling the world I was his one true love. But that was a lie. The man I loved vanished the day the billionaire came back. In his place was a possessive monster who saw me as a possession, and he had just found a new obsession: an artist named Ginger. That’s when the punishments began. Tonight, because Ginger claimed I’d glared at her, he dragged me to a derelict warehouse. My sick mother was tied to a chair, surrounded by open cans of gasoline. He flicked a lighter open, giving me ten seconds to confess to a lie. The man who once worked odd jobs to buy her medicine was now threatening to burn her alive because another woman cried. But it was all a sick performance. Just as he tossed the lighter and flames erupted, his men dragged my mother to safety. “See what happens when you’re not a good girl?” he whispered, before leaving with Ginger. As I carried my mother out of that hellhole, I made a call to a number I hadn't used in years. “Cason? I need your help. I need to disappear.” This time, his world would be the one going up in flames.

My fiancé, Liam, and my brother, Ethan, both fell for the same woman, Chloe. One day, Liam was the man I was going to marry. The next, he looked at me like a stranger. At our engagement party, Liam was an hour late. Then, a picture surfaced of him and Chloe eloping. My world crashed down. To make things worse, Chloe, bandage-clad and tearful, dramatically entered, claiming Liam pushed her. Liam and Ethan, completely taken in, turned on me. "It was Ava," whispered Chloe, and Liam shoved me, causing me to fall and hit my head, bleeding on the floor. My own brother stood over them, his back to me. Two days later, Liam and Chloe showed up, accusing me of my own assault, the man I loved defending the woman who had just lied about me. They were convinced I was the villain, while Chloe was the damsel. I was hospitalized days later with a ruptured appendix, but when I called Ethan, he coldly dismissed me, saying I was "being dramatic," too busy bringing Chloe breakfast. The hospital informed me that my own brother had disowned me. How could two men I loved and trusted so completely be so blind, so cruel? How could my brother abandon me, his only sister, for a woman he'd barely known? I survived. I gathered the last of my strength and resolve. I decided then and there that I wouldn't just disappear; I would rebuild myself, piece by painful piece, into someone they wouldn't recognize, and they would live with the consequences of their betrayal forever.

The heavy iron gate groaned open, and I stepped out, expecting freedom. After a year inside, I longed for my fiancé, Liam, and our son, Noah. But the drive home to our familiar house revealed a chilling transformation: the paint was wrong, my rose bushes were gone. Then Mrs. Gable, our neighbor, delivered the first blow: "Liam has had his hands full, you know. It was a blessing he had Sarah to help him, especially with her being pregnant and all." Sarah. My brother' s widow. Pregnant. My heart seized. The key didn' t fit, but the door was unlocked. Inside, my home was alien-cold, modern, bare of our memories. And then I saw it: a baby' s playpen, a high chair. Not ours. Creeping to the back patio, I saw Liam, his arm around Sarah, her hand on a very pregnant belly. They looked like a perfect family. My perfect family. Then their words: "Are you sure she won' t cause any trouble? She' s supposed to get out this week." "Don' t you worry about Olivia. I know her. She' s loyal to a fault. She took the fall for us once, she' s not going to make waves now. She knows her place." Us. The word twisted in my gut. The truth hit me: Liam hadn' t made a mistake. Sarah had falsified the architectural plans. They had conspired. Liam had begged me to take the blame, promising a future, swearing he' d wait. I believed him. I sacrificed a year, my reputation, my career, for a monstrous lie. The betrayal shattered my heart, but beneath the pain, a cold, hard anger ignited. They thought I was broken, a loyal fool. They were about to learn how wrong they were.

The last thing I remembered was the cold, unforgiving pavement rushing up to meet me. A screech of tires, a flash of headlights, and then a profound, empty silence. My life, a cascade of public humiliation and private despair, was over. It all started at the fashion show, the one where my former best friend, Chloe, stood on the runway, wearing a dress that was a near-perfect copy of my signature design. My own design. Chloe' s powerful family painted me as a jealous, unstable wannabe. My revered mentor turned his back on me. Then Mark, my fiancé, delivered the final blow, breaking our engagement, calling me a failure. I lost everything: my reputation, my love, my financial stability. My death was a footnote in a story that was no longer mine. How could I have been so naive, so blind? How could they have moved so ruthlessly to destroy me, to steal everything I had? The crushing loneliness, the descent into poverty and obscurity, all culminating on that dark, wet street. Then, a sharp, disorienting pull. I gasped, my eyes flying open. I was sitting in the front row of the annual Laurent Gala, my hands smooth, my dress my own design. On stage, Chloe was bowing, wearing the stolen dress. It was the night my life had spiraled into ruin. I was back. I had been given a second chance. Not this time.

My flight home felt endless, a week away from my pregnant wife, Emily, feeling like a year. I pictured her glowing, her smile lighting up the house, ready to welcome me back. But the moment I walked through the door, my world began to fracture. The house was eerily silent, a strange smell in the air, and an overflowing trash can spoke of neglect. Then, Emily' s weak voice called from upstairs, her face pale and clammy, clutching her stomach in pain. At the hospital, a doctor' s cryptic words about "strenuous activity" and needing to be "gentle" left me bewildered, a knot of unease tightening in my chest. I brushed it off, attributing it to stress, clinging to the flimsy explanation when I found a strange bruise on her collarbone-one she vaguely claimed was from clumsiness. But the flimsy facade shattered when I found cigarette ash in our master bathroom sink. I don't smoke, and Emily despises it, making her flimsy explanation about her stepfather stopping by ring hollow. My mother-in-law later confirmed my stepfather-in-law quit smoking years ago, sealing the growing dread in my stomach. Then, my own mother mentioned a new white sedan Emily was seen getting out of, driven by a man-a car I certainly hadn't bought. The pieces clicked into a terrifying mosaic: the doctor' s warning, the bruise, the ash, the unknown man, the mysterious car. But nothing prepared me for the final blow at the doctor' s follow-up: "The fetus is measuring closer to twelve weeks, Mr. Davis." Twelve weeks. A full month older than it should be, a month when I was working fourteen-hour days, thousands of miles away. My world imploded. The doctor wasn't accusing me; he was warning me about her affair. The baby wasn't mine. My wife had cheated, and the life I thought we had built was a cruel, elaborate lie. The man who was supposed to be a father was now the biggest fool. I was a cuckold. And I was going to find out everything.

My MIT scholarship was locked, courtesy of a national coding competition. My future was set. But then I overheard a conversation in the high school computer lab, one that shattered my quiet certainty. Jenny, my childhood best friend, and her powerful "Syndicate" gang-the police chief's kid, the judge's daughter-were planning to cheat on the upcoming AP exams, using stolen data from Jenny's cousin. They found me, and everything changed. They threatened my father' s life-saving transplant, my mother' s safety, everything I held dear. With their parents controlling this town, I had no one to turn to. They forced me to decrypt the stolen files, to create the perfect answer keys, then Jenny deliberately smeared my fingerprints all over the USB drive. "Insurance," she called it. A perfect frame. So, I did the only thing I could. I walked into the SAT, held up that incriminating drive, and publicly confessed to a crime I didn' t commit, a crime so big it had to be federal. I watched my MIT dream vanish. I saw the rage in Agent Morris' s eyes, the pity in my guidance counselor's, and the raw despair on my mother' s face as I admitted guilt. Why would I sacrifice everything-my future, my reputation, my family' s hope-for a ludicrous hack I didn't even do? Why would I burn down my own life and confess to a story so absurd, it made me sound insane? Because I wasn't just confessing. I was setting a trap. And they were about to walk right into it.

My father' s eyes always gleamed when he spoke of the family pact. Whichever daughter got the higher SAT scores and into a prestigious university would marry Mark Johnson, the town' s golden boy. The loser would marry David Wilson, a rumored delinquent from the poorer side of town. This wasn't just a family discussion; this was a replay. In my first life, I was the smart one. I got the top scores, the prestigious university acceptance. I married Mark, lived in a beautiful house. But "golden boy" Mark turned into a monster. After my sister Jessica, forced to marry David, died of an overdose, Mark blamed me. He became cruel, then violent. When I was pregnant with his child, he pushed me from our balcony. "If you hadn't rigged the scores, Jessica would be alive!" he' d screamed, his face twisted. Then darkness. I remember the fall, the pain, the utter betrayal. My perfect life had been a terrifying lie. Killed by the man I married, carrying his child. How could a dream turn into such a brutal nightmare? But then I was back. Living it all again. This time, I remembered everything. This time, I would not repeat the past. This time, I would not marry Mark Johnson. Even if it meant marrying the outcast, David Wilson.

For three years, I, Sarah Miller, poured my heart into my relationship with Ethan Hayes, believing we were a team facing his mounting debts and recent job loss from a struggling tech startup. My loving mother, Mary, despite her own battle with severe emphysema, tirelessly worked extra shifts and sacrificed her precious few savings to help us. In a final, heartbreaking act of selfless devotion, Mary even cashed out her life insurance policy, giving every last penny-$60,000-to Ethan to settle his financial woes, just days before she tragically succumbed to her illness. Her dying wish was for me to use that money to help Ethan, to ensure his future, to be happy. But at my administrative job, a subsidiary of a company called Innovate Solutions, a conversation overheard from a conference room plunged my world into a nightmare: Ethan was a "tech scion," talking about the "Hayes fortune" and a "test" of my loyalty. He wasn't broke; he was a multi-billionaire CEO, and his fabricated poverty was a cruel, elaborate psychological experiment. My mother's agonizing death, her ultimate sacrifice, had been nothing more than a pawn in his sick game. Every act of kindness, every sacrifice we made for him, was a lie. How could the man I loved, the man my mother gave her very life for, be such a manipulative monster? Overwhelmed by grief and a betrayal so profound it choked me, I refused his fake explanations and lavish offers. I walked out of his opulent office, resigned from my job, and cut every tie, determined to find a future free from his monstrous deceit.

I woke up, reborn into my transactional marriage with Amelia, flooded with agonizing memories of my past life – how I, Ethan Miller, shamefully used her, flaunted an affair, and never saw her fierce, hidden love until my dying breath. This time, I vowed to right every wrong, to love her as she truly deserved. But my chance at atonement shattered when Amelia, my chillingly cold wife, threatened my parents' retirement savings. She forced my mother, Sarah, to undergo a dangerous bone marrow transplant for Julian Vance, her beloved artist, leaving me locked away, utterly helpless. After Julian's surgery, Amelia's calculated cruelty escalated into a nightmare. She flaunted Julian, mocked my every attempt at change, deliberately poisoned me, and then subjected me to brutal "re-education" – electroshock, scalding my hand with boiling water. When Julian framed me for her grandfather's injury, Amelia' s chilling rage turned into an unimaginable ordeal, culminating in her threatening my innocent parents' lives, dangling them over a dangerous precipice. How could this be the same woman who died fighting for me? The Amelia I' d come back to cherish, whose love I desperately wanted to earn, had become a terrifying stranger, a monstrous tormentor. Was she reborn too, driven by past pain, or had she simply become pure evil? As the horrifying truth of her unadulterated hatred dawned on me, and my parents' lives hung in the balance, my vow of atonement dissolved. There was only one way out, one final act of self-preservation: I had to fake my own death, vanish, and ensure Amelia believed I was gone forever.

My life was a perfectly curated display: a philanthropic heiress, a devoted husband, and annual galas that outwardly celebrated our unwavering love. But beneath the glittering facade, I stumbled upon a chilling truth: my charming husband Julian and my beautiful sister Liv were not just having a secret affair, but meticulously plotting to strip me of my family's fortune, revealing our entire marriage was a calculated lie, designed solely to gain control of my inherited shares. Julian had always prioritized Liv, abandoning me during my health crisis or fleeing to her side whenever she summoned him, yet nothing prepared me for the night my sister Liv maliciously shoved me into our estate' s ornamental pond. As I struggled to breathe, watching my heavy gown pull me under the shockingly cold water, I saw my husband, my father, and even my college sweetheart all swim past me without a glance, their sole focus on rescuing Liv, who theatrically thrashed and feigned distress in the shallow end. I was left to sink, utterly and completely abandoned. My entire life, it seemed, I' d been the overlooked second choice: my parents showered Liv with affection, my first love chose her vivacity over my quiet nature, and now my husband, the man who had promised unwavering devotion, had merely used me as a pawn for her ambition. How could every single person I ever trusted consistently choose her over me, again and again? As the dark water enveloped me, a strange, profound peace solidified my resolve: the suffocating, theatrical performance of my past life was finally over. I would burn down every painful lie, completely erase Ava Chen, and painstakingly sculpt a new identity, a new life, a true sanctuary where I was the main character, never just an afterthought in someone else's story.

My wedding was set to be the picture of perfection. I stood at the altar, my best man beside me, surrounded by white roses and loved ones, our song just minutes from playing. Then, Chloe's maid of honor rushed towards me, face ashen, uttering words that shattered my world: "Ethan, she’s not coming." Chloe had abandoned our wedding, our future, for Damien—her perpetually 'struggling' ex who always needed 'saving.' My disbelief turned to cold dread when I found them: Damien lounging comfortably, beer in hand, while Chloe justified prioritizing his 'panic attack' over our vows. The humiliation intensified when I later discovered she’d secretly drained twenty thousand dollars from our joint savings, the down payment for our future home, all for him. Five years of my life, my steadfast loyalty, my love—reduced to a manipulative game. The sheer audacity of her betrayal, the calculated deceit, left me reeling, questioning every moment we shared. How could the woman I loved so completely throw it all away for a pathetic, freeloading ex-boyfriend? But from the ashes of my broken heart, a cold resolve formed: I would completely sever ties and reclaim my life, unknowingly paving the way for a shocking confrontation with Damien and a chance encounter that promised to reset everything.

Upon awakening, I realized that the movie star boyfriend in front of me, who was begging me not to break up, would eventually lead to my tragic death on the streets for the sake of the innocent female lead. So, after he was put on ice, I decisively accepted the pursuit of the CEO. Within a year, the CEO transformed me from an unknown nobody into a popular movie queen. At the awards ceremony, I was surprised to see Pei Ze, who had made a comeback, as the award presenter. When a reporter asked him, "Do you have any encouraging words for the actress Jiang?" Pei Ze sneered, "Work harder on President Lu's bed," or "Just crawl back to my bed."

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

I'm a moaning mess as Antonio slams into me from behind. His hips hit me hard, and each deep thrust sends shockwaves through my body. My breasts bounce with every movement, my eyes roll back, and I moan his name without control. The pleasure he gives me is overwhelming-I can't hold it in. I feel my walls tighten around his thick length. The pressure builds fast, and then- I explode around him, my orgasm tearing through me. He groans loud and deep as he releases inside me, his hot seed spilling into me in thick pulses. Just when I think he's done, his grip shifts. He turns me over and lays me flat on the bed. His dark eyes stare into mine for a moment, filled with raw hunger. I glance down- He's still hard. Before I can react, he grabs my wrists, pins me down, and pushes himself inside me again. He fills me completely. My hips rise on instinct, meeting his rhythm. Our bodies move together, locked in a wild, uncontrollable dance. "You're fucking sweet," he groans, his voice rough and breathless. "I can't get enough of you... not after that night, Sol," he growls, slamming into me harder. The force of his words and his thrusts make my body shake. "Come for me," he commands, his voice low and full of heat. And just like that, my body trembles. Waves of pleasure crash over me. I cry out, shaking with the force of my orgasm. "Mine," he growls again, louder this time. His voice is feral, wild, like a beast claiming what belongs to him. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. *** Solene was betrayed, humiliated, and erased by Rowan Brook, the man she once called husband, Solene is left with nothing but her name and a burning hunger for revenge. She turns to the one man powerful enough to destroy the Brooks family from within: Rowan's estranged and dangerous uncle, Antonio Rodriguez. He's ruthless. A playboy who never sleeps with the same woman twice. But when Solene walks into his world, he doesn't just break the rules, he creates new ones just for her. What begins as a calculated game quickly spirals into obsession, power plays, and secrets too deadly to stay buried. Because Solene isn't just anyone's ex... she's the woman they should've never underestimated. Can she survive the price of revenge? Or will her heart become the next casualty? And when the truth comes out, will Antonio still choose her... or destroy her?

I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria. But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity. A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love. My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me. Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego. He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press. He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan. He had no idea she was a fraud. He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her. He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate. At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her. I didn't beg. I didn't cry. I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play.

I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella. Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark. But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved. Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies. When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel. While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest. The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella. He ordered my father to punish me. I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth. That night, the love in my heart finally died. On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape—the only proof that I was Seven. Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney. By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

When I was eight, Dante Moretti pulled me from the fire that killed my family. For ten years, the powerful crime boss was my protector and my god. Then, he announced his engagement to another woman to unite two criminal empires. He brought her home and named her the future mistress of the Moretti family. In front of everyone, his fiancée forced a cheap metal collar around my neck, calling me their pet. Dante knew I was allergic. He just watched, his eyes cold, and ordered me to take it. That night, I listened through the walls as he took her to his bed. I finally understood the promise he’d made me as a child was a lie. I wasn't his family. I was his property. After a decade of devotion, my love for him finally turned to ash. So on his birthday, the day he celebrated his new future, I walked out of his gilded cage for good. A private jet was waiting to take me to my real father—his greatest enemy.

I was the Architect who built the digital fortress for the most feared Don in New York. To the world, I was Brendan Wiggins’s silent, elegant Queen. But then my burner phone buzzed under the dinner table. It was a photo from his mistress: a positive pregnancy test. "Your husband is celebrating right now," the caption read. "You are just the furniture." I looked across the table at Brendan. He smiled and held my hand, lying to my face without blinking. He thought he owned me because he saved my life ten years ago. He told her I was just "functional." That I was a barren asset he kept around to look respectable, while she carried his legacy. He thought I would accept the disrespect because I had nowhere else to go. He was wrong. I didn't want to divorce him—you don't divorce a Don. And I didn't want to kill him. That was too easy. I wanted to erase him. I liquidated fifty million dollars from the offshore accounts only I could access. I destroyed the servers I had built. Then, I contacted a black-market chemist for a procedure called "Tabula Rasa." It doesn't kill the body. It wipes the mind clean. A total hard reset of the soul. On his birthday, while he was out celebrating his bastard son, I drank the vial. When he finally came home to find the empty house and the melted wedding ring, he realized the truth. He could burn the world down looking for me, but he would never find his wife. Because the woman who loved him no longer existed.

I was the "Caged Canary" of the underworld, a biological asset designed to merge two crime families. My fiancé, Bryant Barnes, didn't love me. He loved the power I brought, and he loved his mistress, Kalia. The night Kalia broke into my penthouse and stomped on my hand, crushing the bones and my fashion career, Bryant didn't help me. He told the police she was my guest and warned me not to embarrass him with a cast. That was just the beginning. When Kalia lied about feeling unsafe, Bryant dangled me off a balcony. When she faked a kidnapping, he locked me in an industrial freezer for six hours until I turned blue. And when I fell into the marina, he swam right past me to save her, leaving me to drown in the freezing water. He destroyed my body and my dignity for a woman who was stealing my designs and faking a pregnancy. He thought I was just a broken obligation he could discard. But he made a fatal mistake. He didn't make sure I was dead. I dragged myself out of the water and made a call to his greatest rival. On the night of our grand merger, I walked onto the stage wearing royal blue instead of white. I rolled up my sleeve to reveal the scars he gave me, looked him dead in the eye, and grabbed the microphone. "I hereby terminate my engagement to Bryant Barnes. And I am proud to announce my betrothal to the true King of this city."

I stood alone at the center of my art gallery opening, clutching a glass of warm champagne, while the guests whispered behind their hands. My husband, the Capo of the Chicago Outfit, wasn't there. A breaking news alert on my phone explained why. It was a high-definition photo of Dante shielding his mistress, Isabella, from the rain. He was touching her with a protective possessiveness he had never once shown me. Then came his text: "Isabella needed me. Go home." That was the moment the cage door unlocked. I didn't go home to cry. I went to his office the next morning with a stack of papers disguised as "gallery insurance forms." While Isabella sat on his desk, mocking me for being a boring housewife, Dante was too annoyed to read the fine print. He just wanted me gone so he could get back to her. He signed the divorce decree. He signed the asset dissolution. Most importantly, without looking, he signed the irrevocable relinquishment of parental rights. I walked out with my freedom, but fate had a cruel sense of humor. That night, I stared at a positive pregnancy test. I was carrying the Sovrano heir he had always demanded. And he had just legally signed away his right to ever know his child. I fled to the Swiss Alps, vanishing into the snow to raise my baby away from his world of blood and bullets. I thought I was safe, until six months later. Dante hadn't just sent men to look for me. He had burned his own shipping empire to the ground, destroying his status as King, just to prove he would trade it all for the wife he threw away.

For nine years, I was the perfect mafia wife. I laundered Marcus Thorne’s money through my design firm, smiled at his dinners, and ignored the lipstick stains on his collars. I believed in the Omertà of our marriage. I thought my loyalty was my armor. I was wrong. On the night of our anniversary gala, a car lost control and barreled straight toward us in the parking lot. Marcus didn't look at me. Not once. He lunged for his mistress, Izzy, tackling her to safety behind a concrete pillar. I was left standing in the open. The impact threw me like a ragdoll. I lay bleeding on the cold asphalt, my body broken, watching through the haze as my husband frantically checked his mistress for scratches. "My ankle," she whimpered. Without a backward glance, he picked her up and carried her to his limousine, leaving me to bleed out on the pavement. He didn't leave me because he panicked. He left me because I was just a shield he used to protect what he actually loved. As darkness crept in, a shadow fell over me. It wasn't Marcus. It was Julian Croft, his sworn rival. I looked at the empty spot where my husband should have been and made a choice. "Get me to the hospital," I rasped, staring into the eyes of the enemy. "And then help me burn his empire to the ground."