Lan Zixin

I was securing the diamond clasp of my necklace when the security monitor blinked to life, revealing my husband burying his face between his assistant's thighs. Just an hour later, Dante Moretti stood by my side at the Gala, playing the part of the devoted Capo, while his mistress smirked at me from across the room in a dress that screamed for attention. I wanted to leave. I had packed my bags, ready to disappear. But then the doctor told me the news: I was six weeks pregnant with the Vitiello-Moretti heir. I thought the baby might save us. I thought it would stop the madness. I was wrong. When his mistress accused me of betrayal to cover her own tracks, Dante didn't listen to his wife. He listened to the woman warming his bed. In a blind rage, the man who swore to protect me struck me down. I felt the sharp, tearing pain in my abdomen before I even hit the stone floor. As blood stained my pristine white dress, I realized he hadn't just broken his vows. He had killed our unborn son. So, when the opportunity came to detonate the gas line and fake my own death, I didn't hesitate. I let the world believe Seraphina Moretti died in that explosion. Ten years later, I returned to a city that thought I was a ghost. I dismantled his supply lines, froze his assets, and watched his empire crumble piece by piece. And when he was finally on his knees in the rain, broken and destitute, I stepped out of the shadows. I didn't come back for his money. I came back to hand him the ultrasound photo of the child he murdered. "Hello, Dante."

I served seven years in a black-site prison for a crime my sister committed. Today, my betrothed—the man who chose her over me—finally came to collect his property. But he didn't come to save me. He came to collect me like a debt, watching with cold eyes as I was shoved into a filthy shed, a disgrace to be kept out of sight. Minutes later, his phone rang. It was my sister. Without a word, he left me standing in the dirt to rush to her side. Abandoned. Again. Through the thin walls of my new prison, I heard my own mother's voice. She was arranging to have me sent to a remote convent, to be buried for good this time. They hadn't just locked me away to protect their perfect, adopted daughter. They planned to erase me completely. But as I sat in the dark, a cheap burner phone buzzed in my pocket. A single message glowed on the screen. "Northern Syndicate. We can get you out. You have ten days."

For five years, they told me my cousin Juliette was in Asia, atoning for a data breach that almost destroyed our family's tech company. I played my part as Elaine Stewart, the perfect philanthropic daughter, engaged to my father's brilliant successor, Cole. My life was a carefully managed performance to uphold our family's public image. That lie shattered on the night of our biggest product launch. I saw them on the private airfield next to the event hall. My fiancé, Cole, and my cousin Juliette. And between them, holding both their hands, was a little girl. My world stopped. The girl was Kiarra, the four-year-old "niece" Cole had told me about. His daughter. I soon discovered my entire life was a PR stunt, a shield for their secret family and a much darker corporate crime. My own father had framed Juliette for a data breach he orchestrated, and she was blackmailing him. My mother was in on it, funding their lavish life to ensure their silence. Then I found the video call recording. My cousin and my fiancé, laughing at me. "My sweet, naive charity case of a cousin," Juliette's voice dripped with mockery. "She's so easy to fool." They thought I was a pawn, good for photo ops and nothing more. A cold fury burned through the shock, melting away the girl I used to be. The company's annual shareholders' meeting was in two weeks, live-streamed to the entire world. They were expecting a celebratory corporate video. But this year, I would replace it. I would replace it with irrefutable proof of the affair, the secret family, and the blackmail. They were about to find out how wrong they were.

This was the third time I had tried to kill myself. Each time, my brother-in-law, Dustin Martin, found me and saved me. But then, I found his watch, a Patek Philippe I' d commissioned for my husband, Evertt, who was presumed dead in a plane crash. The engraving on the back read: "H&E, Forever." My heart stopped. Why did Dustin have Evertt' s watch? A cold dread filled me. I had to know. I had to find out the truth. I stumbled out of my hospital room and heard voices from the waiting area. It was Kylee, Dustin' s pregnant fiancée, and a man' s voice I knew better than my own. It was Evertt' s voice. I peeked around the corner. "Dustin" was holding Kylee in his arms. "Evertt, what if she finds out?" Kylee whispered. "What if she realizes you' re not Dustin?" "She won' t," Evertt said, his voice cold and indifferent. "Her grief is too deep. She sees what she wants to see." The man who had saved me from suicide, the man I thought was my brother-in-law, was my husband. My living, breathing husband. And he had watched me suffer, letting me drown in grief, all for his dead brother' s fiancée. My entire world had been a lie. A cruel, twisted joke. But then, a new thought, cold and sharp, cut through my pain. An escape. I would be strong enough to destroy him.

The blinking cursor on Liam Miller' s screen mocked him: "Invalid Certificate Number." He sighed, leaning back in his leather chair, the city lights shimmering behind him. Their five-year marriage certificate, an official document, yet it wouldn' t register for their new foundation. Chloe, his seemingly supportive wife, brushed it off as a "silly computer glitch." He loved her boundless optimism, especially after the devastating news that they couldn' t have children. He founded the "Miller-Davis Foundation for Hope" because she urged him to turn their personal pain into a public mission to help others. The next morning, with Chloe off to Monaco, Liam decided to settle the registration in person. The clerk' s words hit him like a physical blow: "There' s no record of a marriage certificate with this number... According to the state, this marriage never happened." Five years. A small, intimate beach wedding. Crying. Laughing. Families and friends. All fake? His mind raced, replaying every moment. Was their entire life together a meticulously crafted lie? The loving gestures, the shared dreams-were they all just an elaborate act? He stumbled out, the useless paper a scorching brand in his hand. He had to find her. He needed the truth. He didn't pack, didn't call his assistant. He just booked the first flight to Monaco, a desperate, singular thought consuming him: I have to find her. I need the truth. But the truth he found was far more brutal. He watched from the shadows as Chloe, radiant and in white, walked down an aisle, not to him, but to Ethan Vance–his protégé, his mentee. It was another wedding. And she was the bride.

The phantom chill of icy water jolted me awake, but I wasn' t drowning in Lake Champlain; I was safe in my luxurious Boston apartment. My fiancé, Matthew, and his mother stood over my bed, demanding I sign papers to dissolve our shared assets, claiming it was just a formality. But I recognized this moment, a chilling deja vu-I had been reborn just thirty days before "The Great Silence." In my last life, this conversation ended with me refusing, crying, feeling utterly betrayed and abandoned. I remembered how he' d later abandon me to monstrous creatures, using me as a decoy for his pregnant mistress. This time, there were no tears, only a cold, hard resolve. I signed away everything we had built, but my enemies didn't realize they were signing their own death warrants. My plan wasn't just to survive the coming apocalypse, but to exact a ruthless, quiet revenge. I walked out, leaving Matthew clueless, carrying his driver's license-a silent weapon. I drove north to my reclusive father's fortified compound, desperate to warn him and bring my Army Ranger brother home before the world went silent. Days later, Matthew called, desperate and alone, his mother and mistress gone. He begged for help, but I sent him to a decoy cabin, tracked by a hidden camera. Watching him stumble in, not alone as promised, I saw his true nature. The ensuing fight drew creatures, and he resorted to a horrifying act of self-mutilation to survive. He eventually found our true haven, using a child as bait to draw the creatures to our gate. But I had one last, silent trick up my sleeve, linked to his greed and his pride. With a single click, Matthew's old smartphone became his personal alarm, a blaring siren in a world that hunted by sound. His end was swift, brutal, and orchestrated by me. We rescued the traumatized child, Elyse, a silent victim like my own brother, Andrew, who had also mutilated himself to save innocents. Our fortress became a home, a sanctuary of silence and love, as we rebuilt a new family from the ashes of the old world. We became protectors, finding purpose and happiness not in spoken words, but in the enduring strength of our bond.

I spent three years locked away by my husband, Ethan, in a soundproof panic room. My legs, shattered in the "accident" he orchestrated, were useless. He stole my songs, my career, my life, and gave them to Chloe, a talentless fraud he built into a star. Then, they wheeled me out-a prisoner displayed for the "happy family": Ethan, Chloe, and my son, Leo. Leo, who looked at me like a monster, holding Chloe's hand and calling her "mom." Ethan ordered me to confess to plagiarism, to blame my own "jealousy" for his intricate web of lies that destroyed me. But the ultimate cruelty came later. Chloe, supposedly dying from a heart condition, needed a transplant. "You're a match," Ethan stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "You will donate your heart to Chloe." It wasn't a request; it was my execution. My heart for hers, the last piece of me carved out and given to the woman who stole my life. As the scalpel touched my skin, Chloe whispered, "This is for stealing my life, you bitch." I closed my eyes, uttering one word to the mysterious "Pact" I made years ago. Then, I left my body to die. Yet, I woke up. Not gone, but back. And the Pact whispered a new bargain: return to stop Ethan, who, shattered by my death, was becoming a true monster. The deal was clear: save him and save my sister. I stepped back into hell, but this time, the chains were broken, and I was ready to fight.

A five-million-dollar inheritance from a distant aunt. It was meant to be our fresh start, a dream come true for my loving husband, Mark, our sweet daughter, Lily, and me. But within hours, my world shattered. First, Lily lay tragically still on the patio below, then my mother and I were caught in a horrific car crash. We were all gone. Floating above my dead body, I watched Mark. His grief-stricken face twisted into a chilling smirk as he embraced his very pregnant assistant, Jessica. He brazenly confessed: they had murdered my daughter, my mother, and me. All for the five million dollars. The betrayal was a physical ache, a searing pain, for a family wiped out by the man I loved, all for greed. An unspeakable injustice burned within me. Then, strangely, I woke up. The familiar email from the lawyer pinged again. My Lily was alive, tucked safely in her bed. This time, they wouldn' t win. This time, I would make them pay.

I worked three grueling jobs, every aching muscle and burning eye for my son, Noah. He had a rare blood disorder, his medical bills a relentless mountain. I sacrificed everything, even my late father' s cherished guitar and took out predatory loans, just for Noah' s life-saving transplant. My wife, Chloe, seemed to struggle alongside me, always talking of bad investments and financial woes. Then, one delivery took me to a swanky charity gala. Inside, I saw her. Chloe. Radiant in a shimmering blue dress, laughing freely with Julian Thorne, a distinguished, wealthy art collector. This wasn' t my struggling artist wife; she was a stranger brimming with effortless wealth. Days later, a mysterious USB drive revealed the horrifying truth. On video, Chloe laughed with Julian, admitting our "struggle" was a five-year "test." She spoke of Noah, our dying son, as an "inconvenience," even hinting his marrow could be "fortuitously" diverted to Julian' s nephew, Alex. I clung to hope, but Chloe herself, Noah' s own mother, redirected his life-saving transplant to Alex. Noah died. My world imploded. Every sacrifice, every tear, every ounce of love was nothing but a pawn in their sick game. How could the woman I loved, his own mother, be capable of such monstrous, calculated cruelty? How could she condemn our child to death for a "test," for a wealthy man's convenience? The truth shattered me; I collapsed, consumed by grief and unfathomable betrayal. I woke up in a hospital, broken but not defeated. With Dr. Olivia Ramirez's unwavering support, I slowly healed. When Chloe offered "family money" and suggested "another child," I saw her true, empty remorse. She could never pay for the life she took, nor mend the love she destroyed. Now, alongside Olivia, I channel my unending grief for Noah into "Noah's Light," a foundation helping children like him. This is my path forward, a legacy for Noah, a future she' ll never touch.

My husband, Mark Sterling, returned from a tech retreat a changed man. He brought with him Tiffany Royale, a "disruptor" influencer whose smile was too bright, her boasts too loud. In the tranquil living room I designed, he coldly announced his desire for a divorce. "I'm marrying Tiffany," he declared, praising her "Gen Z insights" as the future of his company, while Tiffany preened smugly. She swiftly joined Sterling Innovations, immediately dismissing me and my established network as "outdated legacy thinkers." I watched calmly as her disastrous "modern strategies" alienated key partners and threatened the company's very foundations, yet Mark remained utterly blind. When her incompetence led my powerful network of women – titans of finance and law – to withdraw their support en masse, Mark screamed, blaming me. In a fit of rage, he banished me, his "old and bitter" wife, to our sprawling Hamptons estate, believing it to be my silent exile. He had no idea that the "Cold Palace" wasn't a prison; it was my perfectly appointed command center. And with my formidable "Sorority Sisters" by my side, we were just getting started. The man who thought he was a genius was about to learn who had truly paved his path to power, and who would now dismantle it, piece by piece.

After her brother had received admission to Royal Magic School, Anne decided to follow him into this magical world. It was there she met Brice, the great vampire lord. He was both intrigued and annoyed by this human girl, and once she ruined his date and used a spell to freeze him, it was all over. The great vampire lord smiled devilishly. The games had only just begun; now he would play with her until she regretted what she had done to him.

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 was three days away from marrying the Underboss of the Fazio crime family when I unlocked his burner phone. The screen glowed toxic bright in the dark next to my sleeping fiancé. A message from a contact saved as 'Little Trouble' read: "She is just a statue, Dante. Come back to bed." Attached was a photo of a woman lying in the sheets of his private office, wearing his shirt. My heart didn't break; it simply stopped. For eight years, I believed Dante was the hero who pulled me from a burning opera house. I played the perfect, loyal Mafia Princess for him. But heroes don't give their mistresses rare pink diamonds while giving their fiancées cubic zirconia replicas. He didn't just cheat. He humiliated me. He defended his mistress over his own soldiers in public. He even abandoned me on the side of the road on my birthday because she faked a pregnancy emergency. He thought I was weak. He thought I would accept the fake ring and the disrespect because I was just a political pawn. He was wrong. I didn't cry. Tears are for women who have options. I had a strategy. I walked into the bathroom and dialed a number I hadn't dared to call in a decade. "Speak," a voice like gravel growled on the other end. Lorenzo Moretti. The Capo of the rival family. The man my father called the Devil. "The wedding is off," I whispered, staring at my reflection. "I want an alliance with you, Enzo. And I want the Fazio family burned to the ground."

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.

For seven years, I served as the eyes for Dante Vitiello, the blind Capo of New York. I pulled him back from the edge of madness, tending to his wounds and warming his bed when everyone else had given up on him. But the moment his vision returned, the years of devotion turned to ash. In a single phone call, he decided to marry Sofia Moretti for territory, dismissing me as just "the maid's daughter" and a "comfort" he intended to keep as a mistress. He forced me to watch him court her. At a gala, when a chaotic accident caused a tower of champagne glasses to shatter, Dante threw his body over Sofia to protect her. He left me standing there, bleeding from the glass shards, while he carried her away like she was porcelain. He didn't even look back at the woman who had saved his life. I realized then that I had worshipped a broken god. I had given him my dignity, only for him to treat me like a disposable bandage now that he was whole. He arrogantly believed I would stay in the penthouse, grateful for his scraps. So, while he was out celebrating his engagement, I met with his mother. I signed the severance agreement for fifty million dollars. I packed my bags, wiped my phone, and boarded a one-way flight to Australia. By the time Dante came home to an empty bed, realized his mistake, and began tearing the city apart to find me, I was already a ghost.

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 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."

"Fifty strikes," Floyd ordered, his voice devoid of warmth. I knelt in the freezing snow, watching the man I had taken a bullet for five years ago stand beside his new fiancée, Jaylah. Because Jaylah tore her engagement dress and blamed me, Floyd let his men beat me until my face was unrecognizable. But that was just the beginning of my hell. To save his alliance with Jaylah's family, he drained my blood to save her mother, ignoring my own fading pulse. When Jaylah lied that I tried to burn her, Floyd forced me to thrust my hands—my architect's hands—into glowing coals until the flesh melted. He stripped me of my name, my protection, and finally, my life. "You are a liability," he said, pushing me into the freezing pool with a skimmer pole. He watched me drown with the same detached interest he used to inspect firearms. My lungs burned, and my heart turned to ice. I died hating him more than I ever loved him. I thought it was the end. But then, I gasped. Air rushed into my lungs. I wasn't in the water. I was sitting at a drafting table, five years before the nightmare began. My hands were smooth. No scars. No burns. And when Floyd Meyers approached me on the quad, smiling like the boy I used to love, I didn't smile back. I ran.

I stood behind the velvet curtain, clutching a positive pregnancy test, waiting for the perfect moment to tell Dante our family was growing. Instead, I heard him laugh. "She is not the bride," Dante told his Consigliere, swirling his fifty-year-old scotch. "She is the bulletproof vest I wear until it is safe for Sofia to enter the city. When the bullets stop flying, we throw the vest in the trash." My world shattered. When Sofia arrived that night, she didn't just take my place; she boiled my beloved cat for dinner. Dante didn't defend me. He told me to clean up the mess or face punishment. To prove his devotion to her, he had his men drag me to "The Pit"—an underground fight club. I was thrown into a cage with a starving Doberman. I looked up at the VIP box, begging the man I loved to save me. Instead, Dante pressed the intercom button, his voice booming over the speakers. "One million dollars on the dog," he said. "She won't last three minutes." He covered Sofia's eyes to protect her innocence while the beast tore the flesh from my arm. That night, Elena Vance died in the dirt. One year later, the grieving Dante Moretti attended a gala for a mysterious new artist in New York. He dropped his champagne glass when he saw me on stage, alive, wearing a dress that revealed my ruined, scarred arm. "I didn't leave you, Dante," I said into the microphone, my voice cold as ice. "You killed me. And now, I'm here to collect my winnings."

The neurosurgeon looked at me with pity, delivering a diagnosis that severed seven years of devotion in a heartbeat. According to the scans, my husband, Dante Rizzoli, remembered how to strip a Glock blindfolded and launder millions. He just didn't remember loving me. Overnight, I went from being the cherished Mafia Princess to an unwanted stranger in my own penthouse. While I filled our home with his favorite lilies trying to spark a memory, Dante brought home Gia. She was loud, tacky, and draped over him like a cheap suit. The Capo had forgotten his wife, but he seemed to remember his lust perfectly fine. I swallowed the humiliation, clinging to the hope of his recovery, until I stood outside his office door with a tray of espresso. I heard his dark, amused laugh rumbling through the wood. "The amnesia is the most useful card I've ever played," Dante told his soldier. "It buys me time to enjoy Gia without the family breathing down my neck. Elena is a boring, safe relic. I need fire, not a porcelain doll." My heart didn't race. It stopped. The medical anomaly was a lie. He hadn't forgotten me; he was just done with me. I set the tray down silently. I wasn't going to wait for him to remember anymore. I walked out of the penthouse and dialed a number I hadn't used in years. "Get the new ID ready," I whispered into the phone. "Elena Vitiello dies tonight. Livia Moretti leaves at dawn."

My little brother’s heart monitor was screaming its final warning. I called my husband, Dante Volkov, the ruthless underworld king whose life I’d saved years ago. He had promised to send his elite medical team. “I’m handling an emergency,” he snapped, then hung up. An hour later, my brother was dead. I found out what Dante’s “emergency” was from his mistress’s social media. He had sent his team of world-class surgeons to deliver her cat’s kittens. My brother died for a litter of cats. When Dante finally called, he didn't even apologize. I could hear her voice in the background, asking him to come back to bed. He even forgot my brother was dead, offering to buy him a new toy to replace the one his mistress deliberately crushed. This was the man who had promised to protect me, to make my high school tormentors pay. Now, he was holding that very tormentor, Seraphina, in his arms. Then came the final blow: a call from the clerk's office revealed our seven-year marriage was a sham. The certificate was a forgery. I was never his wife. I was just a possession he was tired of. After he left me to die in a car crash for Seraphina, I made one call. I texted a rival mob heir I hadn't spoken to in years: "I need to disappear. I'm calling it in."