Madel Cerda

I realized my husband did not love me the moment he stepped over my broken heart to answer a text from his mistress. Caleb was the "Architect," a feared Capo in New York, but he forgot that I was the one who funded his rise from the gutter with my inheritance. He brought his assistant, Kimberly, into our private penthouse. She wore my silk robe, mocked my past trauma, and snapped my dead mother’s rosary right in front of my eyes. When I lashed out in grief, Caleb didn't defend me. He pinned me against the wall, comforting her while calling me "unstable" and "violent." He gaslighted me, claiming I would be eaten alive without his protection. He thought I was just a fragile princess who would crumble without him. He truly believed he was the king, forgetting that I was the one who built the castle. I didn't cry. I simply wiped the blood from my arm and walked out the door. He didn't know that I owned thirty percent of his laundering front and the land beneath his precious casino. I picked up the phone and dialed the number of his deadliest rival, the Irish mob. "The bank is closed, Caleb. I’m selling my shares to the enemy."

Four miscarriages had shattered my spirit, but it was my husband Blake' s silence that truly killed me. I was supposed to be his destined partner, the vessel for the twin sons who would secure his family' s real estate empire, all according to his spiritual guru. Then I discovered the truth at a secret celebration. There stood Blake, beaming beside his high school sweetheart, Chyna, who held two newborn sons. "The prophecy is fulfilled!" the guru declared. My world imploded. Blake called me a "placeholder," admitting he' d orchestrated my miscarriages because those weren't the "destined" children. He moved Chyna into our home, gave her sons the names I had chosen for mine, and even destroyed my mother's rose garden, claiming its "negative energy" was making the babies sick. He then forced me into a brutal "purification" ritual that left me scarred and broken, all to "cleanse" the house for his new family. My agony was just an inconvenient part of his twisted plan. I escaped and built a new life, finding love with a kind man and his son. But just as I accepted his proposal, Blake found me, his eyes blazing with obsession. "You're mine, Amelia," he growled. "And you will return with me, or I will make sure you regret it!"

My mother was in the hospital after a nasty dog bite, so I called my fiancé, Cohen. He was supposed to be my rock. Instead, I got annoyance. He was in Aspen, on a ski trip with my best friend, Hillary. “What do you want me to do? Fly back right now?” he snapped, before hanging up to get back to the “perfect snow.” The dog, it turned out, was Hillary’s. The bite on my diabetic mother’s leg quickly developed into a raging infection. I texted Cohen an update, telling him she was getting worse, that they were talking about surgery. He didn't call back. Instead, Hillary’s Instagram story updated: a photo of her and Cohen, cheeks flushed from the cold, smiling in front of a fireplace. The caption was a single heart emoji. While they were sipping hot chocolate, my mother went into septic shock. As I sat alone in the grim hospital waiting room, staring at my silent phone, I knew he had already made his choice. He had chosen a vacation. He had chosen my best friend. He had left my mother to die all alone. She passed away at 3:17 AM. I held her hand until it grew cold, then walked out into the gray dawn. I wasn't just grieving. I was done. I was going to erase myself from his world and burn everything to the ground.

"Next." The words called out at city hall, flat and mundane, were supposed to usher me into a new life with Chloe, the woman I' d loved for ten years. Chloe nudged me, impatient. "Mark, that's us. Hurry up." But as the clerk took the marriage application, her voice, initially bored, turned sharp: "Mark Peterson and… Kevin Peterson? Is this correct?" Chloe froze, her perfectly sculpted face contorting in confusion and rage. "What did you say?" The clerk pointed, revealing my brother' s name where hers should have been. "That's two male names. We can't process this." Chloe snatched the application, her eyes scanning, then fixed on me, venomous. "Mark! What is this? Why is your brother's name on here? Where's the real application?" In a flash, a memory surfaced: my past life, on my deathbed at 52, Chloe and Kevin holding hands. They demanded I sign divorce papers, asking not about my pain, but about their "true love" having waited so long. For thirty years, they had used me, behind my back, living off my money. The woman I would have died for, in another life, nearly made me. But this wasn't that life. This was my second chance. "There is no other application," I stated, my voice steady, pulling out a blank form. "You and Kevin can fill this one out. I'm sure he'll be happy to sign it." Confusion, then chilling anger warred on her face. Her perfectly crafted world was crumbling, and she had no idea why. She didn't know the story of the man she had betrayed, not really. I walked away from her, not looking back, the marriage application to my brother a stark symbol of her true place in my life-and his. This time, I' d choose my own path.

The clear blue water shimmered, and beneath me, my seven-year-old daughter, Lily, swam like a tiny mermaid. It was in these quiet underwater moments that I, Ava, felt closest to her, the wall between us finally seeming to dissolve. Then, her small fingers, meant to grasp my hand, wrapped around the hose of my regulator. She pulled. The mouthpiece was ripped from my mouth. My vision blurred as I choked, a terrifying gush of bubbles replacing my smile, my lungs screaming for air. What struck me most, though, wasn't the panic, but the cold, deliberate focus in her eyes as she swam away, leaving me to drown. Back on the boat, shivering and gasping, I watched my husband, Jake, arrive. He didn't come to me, still wrapped in a scratchy towel and dripping saltwater. He went straight to Lily, holding her tight, asking, "Are you okay, princess? Did she scare you?" His eyes, chips of ice, finally landed on me. "What did you do?" he demanded, his voice low and menacing. Lily, buried in his shoulder, sobbed, "No, I didn't! Mommy got angry and took her own mask off! She scared me!" My head snapped up. The lie was so quick, so easy, so utterly believable to him. His shadow fell over me, and he hissed, "You can't even take care of our daughter for one afternoon without some kind of drama. Are you that desperate for attention?" He didn't believe me, not for a second. He just sneered, "She's seven, Ava. What possible reason would she have to do something like that?" The cold of the deep water was nothing compared to the chill settling in my bones. I was utterly alone. That night, Jake revealed the bitter truth: I was never Lily' s mother, just a "vessel" for Olivia' s child. The marriage, the contract, the baby-it was all a calculated trap. "You have no idea what you've done, do you?" he snarled, grabbing my chin, "You've upset Lily. Badly." Then came Lily's seventh birthday party, where she subtly cut my dress strap, exposing my C-section scar to everyone. As I stood humiliated, she beamed, "Ew, look! Look at her ugly scar! It's so gross! I'm going to be sick!" The realization hit me: this wasn't a childish prank. It was calculated. My heart, already shattered, felt like it was being ground into dust. All I had endured crystallized. I picked up the small scissors she'd used. "You wanted to cut something, Lily?" I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. Before anyone could react, I plunged them into the magnificent birthday cake, stabbing again and again, destroying the perfect castle. "There," I said, dropping the scissors. "Happy birthday." I walked out of the ballroom, leaving the stunned silence, the screaming child, and the ruins of a life I was finally ready to abandon. My phone rang; it was Olivia' s mother. "You can't leave! Think of your duty!" she shrieked. "That poor child just deliberately humiliated me," I replied, then Lily's voice came on, "I hate you! I wish you would die like my real mommy did!" Suddenly, it all clicked: they had used me. I was a placeholder, a prop. A bitter laugh escaped me. "You can have the ring. You can have the house. You can have the clothes. You can have the whole damn life. I don't want it." I pulled the SIM card from my phone, letting it fall into the bushes. As I reached the front door with my single small suitcase, Jake blocked my path. "I've already figured it out," he announced, "We'll send Lily to Switzerland. Then you can come back, and we can go back to normal." I looked at him, at Sarah clutching his arm, at Lily cheering, "Is Sarah going to be my new mommy now? You have to leave with nothing. That's what happens to bad people." They wanted to strip me of everything. And in that moment, it was exactly what I needed. "Okay," I said, a real smile on my face. I let go of my suitcase, leaving it on the marble floor. "Okay, Lily. I'll leave with nothing." I turned my back on them all and walked toward the open door, a wave of intoxicating freedom washing over me. Just then, a piercing scream from inside shattered the quiet. Lily. A decorative candle had fallen on a velvet curtain; flames were already licking their way up, and Lily stood frozen in terror. My body moved before my brain could process-she was a child, in danger. I ran back inside. I grabbed Lily, turning my back to shield her, just as a burning curtain rod crashed down on me. The pain was searing, but I held her tight, pushing her into Jake' s arms. "Get her out!" I choked, tasting blood. He grabbed Lily, his face pale, but then he looked at me, covered in soot, my hair singed. "Ava! What did you do now?" he roared. That was it. The last piece of my old life turned to ash. I had just saved his daughter, and he was screaming at me. An incredible lightness filled my chest. I felt profound pity for them, trapped in their beautiful, burning prison. "Seven years," I whispered, "It was only seven years. I can afford to lose that." I turned away from the sirens, from his accusing face, and started walking down the long, winding driveway. No shoes, torn clothes, my back screaming, gravel digging into my bare feet. But I didn't care. The pain was real, it was mine, and I felt alive. I walked on, into the darkness, not looking back.

For six years, I poured my soul into supporting Ethan, transforming blueprints for my own dreams into the foundation of his. Then he came home, reeking of another woman' s perfume, and my perfect future shattered. He mocked my paranoia, shoved me to the floor, and I lost our baby-a secret hope only I knew. But the real gut punch? Seeing that other woman, Tiffany, wearing my locket, the symbol of our eternal devotion, given to her by my husband. He later used my deadly seafood allergy against me, watching, with disdain, as I convulsed on the kitchen floor. Why was he doing this? Why was he so hell-bent on erasing me? Lying in that hospital bed, Sarah, my kind nurse, whispered a plan, a way out-my grandmother's secret safe deposit box, a new identity, and a whispered promise of escape. My real fight for survival had just begun.

For ten years, Andrew Scott – Drew – was my world. He was my protector, my father' s best friend, who' d raised me after my world shattered. My adoration for him, though, morphed into a love he brutally rejected, sending me away like a problem to be solved. To prove I was more than his ward, I volunteered for a deep-cover CIA mission, ultimately dying for my country. But death wasn't the end. I returned, a spirit, granted seven days to find peace. My only attachment was Drew, and I materialized in his Georgetown home. What I witnessed shattered me. Drew, the man I' d died for, was engaged to Molly, dismissing me as a mere "asset" and accusing me of desertion when I flickeringly appeared. Molly, his fiancée, wasn' t just unconcerned; she actively, sadistically tormented me, savoring my pain as I floated, unseen, through my childhood home. He didn' t see me. He never really had. I was a liability, a game, a ghost of memory. How could the man who raised me, who promised to keep me safe, refuse to see the truth even when I stood before him, the very woman he' d sent to her death? On my last day, my funeral arrived. My casket, draped in a flag, confirmed the unspeakable. And then, I watched as the man I loved finally broke, realizing, too late, the terrible truth of who I was, and what he had lost.

The world came back with a roar, a wall of sound and heat that shook the truck. It was happening again. Trapped in my vehicle, surrounded by a raging wildfire, I looked at Jessica, my wife, and Dylan, her lover. This wasn't my first life, where I just died in the flames. This time, they didn't simply abandon me. As the inferno closed in, Jessica's eyes turned cold, calculating. "Block the hole," she commanded, throwing the fire shelter-the one I'd bought-over Dylan. They shoved me into the gap, turning me into a screaming, human shield. I woke up in a burn unit, every inch of my body ablaze with pain. Yet, they were on national TV, lauded as "Cascade Survivors," my wife's perfectly placed tears painting me as a reckless coward. They came to my hospital bed, not for sympathy, but to threaten divorce, demanding I confirm their lies, all while actively stealing my very last dollars. Scalded, slandered, and stolen from, a cold, pure rage began to burn inside me, finally erasing every last trace of the love I once held for her. They thought I was broken, utterly annihilated. They thought I had nothing left to lose. They were wrong. With bandaged, trembling fingers, I reached for my phone. "My name is Liam Hale," I rasped, "and I need to report a crime. My credit card has been stolen, and I know exactly who did it."

The captain' s voice sliced through the cabin' s quiet hum, a familiar prelude to disaster. My husband, Alex, was at the controls, announcing an abrupt diversion from Los Angeles to New York. His reason? A 'medical emergency' for his dearest friend, Brittany, compelling us to land in Denver. My blood ran cold; this wasn't just déjà vu, it was my nightmare from a past life replaying, detail for excruciating detail. Last time, Alex' s toxic obsession with Brittany hijacked this very flight, making a cross-country journey hostage to his personal drama. He callously ignored a genuine onboard emergency-a stroke suffered by actor Julian Knight-despite my desperate pleas as a paramedic to land immediately. Alex' s reckless refusal led to Brittany' s 'emergency' being exposed as a self-inflicted sham, yet he still twisted everything. He systematically demolished my career and reputation, blaming me for every consequence and shamelessly claiming credit for the life-saving work I' d done. And when he was finally done breaking me, he staged a car accident, murdering me. I still felt the metallic crunch, the searing pain, followed by consuming darkness. Yet here I was, resurrected, seated on this precise flight, hearing his voice again. The chilling echo of 'Denver. Brittany.' consumed my thoughts, a stark reminder that I was reliving my end. But not this time. There would be no begging, no pleading, no quiet acceptance of victimhood. Alex Carter was about to meet an Evie Hayes he didn't kill, an Evie Hayes ready to fight.

My life in Boston, married to the man I adored, Liam, and embraced by my incredible mother-in-law Eleanor, was a dream. Sheltered by Eleanor' s modern wit from the stuffy Davenport family' s expectations, I felt truly happy and secure. Then came Eleanor' s frantic call. Her voice, shaking, shattered my illusion of perfection: Arthur, the family patriarch, had moved another woman into our guesthouse. My stomach clenched as I confessed Liam had also grown distant, constantly working late with a new "business associate" set up in a corporate apartment. The ultimate public dismissal arrived when our husbands brazenly excluded us from the annual family gala. Eleanor' s swift investigation uncovered the brutal truth: Liam was openly escorting his "associate," Agent Walker, who the firm treated with alarming familiarity. It became horrifyingly clear-we were being discarded, replaced like outdated accessories. The betrayal felt like a gut punch, a painful echo of the quiet suffering endured by generations of women in our families. How could the men who pledged to love and protect us abandon us so cruelly? The pain was unbearable, the humiliation profound. But Eleanor, a sharp former tech CEO, refused to be a victim. Her eyes blazing with a fierce resolve, she declared, "If they want new lives, we'll start ours. A better one." Our audacious plan: fake our deaths during the gala, disappear without a trace, and reclaim our freedom. A plan that, amidst its desperate chaos, led to a shocking discovery: we were both pregnant with their children.

My life was the American dream: Alex Sterling, a tech CEO with a penthouse, a beautiful wife, and a billion-dollar company. Then came the Aspen ski accident, changing everything. Confined to a wheelchair, "recovering," my perfect wife Jessica and my best friend Marcus took over my life and my company. But beneath their overly solicitous smiles and condescending coos, I saw the truth-the lipstick smudge on his collar, the furtive glances, the subtle touches. My wife and my best friend were having an affair, plotting to steal everything I' d built. They paraded doctors, pushed papers for me to sign, openly humiliated me, calling me a "cripple," "pathetic," believing me utterly broken and powerless. Jessica purred about romantic chalets while forcing me to sign away what they believed were my company's controlling shares. Marcus, my supposed brother-in-arms, even kicked my wheelchair, his eyes gleaming with years of festering resentment, reveling in my apparent downfall. Even my fiercely loyal head of security seemed to turn on me, joining their "winning team." The betrayal, the public mockery, the slow dismantling of my life-it was a torment I wouldn' t wish on my worst enemy. Why would I endure this unbearable humiliation? Why let them strip me bare, sign away my company, my marriage, my very dignity, believing I was blissfully unaware? They thought they had won, that I was a broken man about to be discarded. But what if the accident was no accident? What if I knew every single step of their treacherous plan, even before they took it? Because when I put my name to those papers, the game wasn't over for me; it had truly just begun for them.

I was living the American dream with Sarah. A small house, a steady job at the garage, and a wedding on the horizon. Life in our Montana town was simple, predictable – until Billy Rivers walked in. One afternoon, I came home early with a bouquet of wildflowers, only to find Sarah on the couch, wrapped around a shirtless Billy. She claimed he was just upset, that she was comforting him, but the way he looked at her... it was more than just a friendly hug. Then Sarah dropped the bomb: Billy was the EMT who saved her life after a logging truck nearly killed her. He donated blood directly, becoming her "hero," her "lifesaver." Now, he was down on his luck, and she insisted he move in with us. My gut screamed, but Sarah accused me of being jealous and heartless. Soon, the town turned against me, whispering about my "dark moods" and "controlling" behavior. Billy, the golden boy, played the victim card perfectly, while Sarah remained blind to his lies. Was I losing my mind, or was everyone else? Everything exploded when Billy claimed I pushed him down a flight of stairs. I was arrested, my reputation ruined, and Sarah got a restraining order against me. My life had completely shattered. But that's when I decided, enough is enough. I was going to prove my innocence, and expose Billy for the fraud he truly was, even if it meant losing everything – including Sarah.

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 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 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.

On our fifth anniversary, my husband slid a black velvet box across the table. Inside wasn't a diamond ring, but a fountain pen. "Sign the separation papers, Aurora," Ethan said. "Ilene is spiraling again. She needs to see we are over." I was the wife of the Mafia Underboss, yet I was being discarded for the Family Ward. Before I could answer, Ilene stormed into the restaurant. She shrieked that I was still wearing his ring and threw a bowl of boiling lobster bisque directly at my chest. As my skin blistered and peeled, Ethan didn't rush to me. He hugged her. "It's okay," he soothed the woman who had just assaulted me. "I've got you." The betrayal didn't stop there. When Ilene pushed me down the stairs days later, Ethan erased the security footage to protect her from the police. When I was kidnapped by his enemies, I called his emergency line—the one meant for life-or-death situations. He declined the call. He was too busy holding Ilene's hand to save his wife. That was the moment the chain broke. As the kidnapper's van sped onto the highway, I didn't wait for a rescue that would never come. I opened the door and jumped into the dark. Everyone thought Aurora Bruce died on that pavement. Two years later, Ethan stood outside a gallery in Paris, looking at the woman he had destroyed, finally realizing he had protected the wrong one.

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 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 a Vitiello, sold to the Morettis to secure an alliance. For five years, I quietly loved Dante, counting down the minutes until our wedding at St. Patrick's Cathedral. But it ended with a single text three minutes before the ceremony. "Stay at the apartment. Sofia is awake. Don't make a scene." His ex-girlfriend, the love of his life, had woken from a coma with no memory. Just like that, I was erased. For thirty days, I waited in the shadows while Dante played hero to a woman who didn't remember him. He told me he was protecting her fragile mind. But then I found the truth. I stood outside the doctor's office and heard Dante refuse a treatment that would restore Sofia's memory. "If she remembers, she might leave again," Dante told the doctor. "Elena will wait. She's a good soldier. Let me have my fantasy." He wasn't protecting her. He was keeping her broken to feed his ego, banking on my submission. He thought I was furniture he could put in storage. He was wrong. I didn't go back to the apartment. Instead, I dialed a number every made man in New York feared. "Matteo," I said to Dante's lethal older brother, the King of the underworld. "I am done waiting. I want to be a Moretti bride. But not Dante's."

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.

One casual visit to her father's study; an unplanned collision with the malevolent Russian Bratva mafia boss plunged her life into a downward spiral. Forced to marry him for an alliance that bordered on keeping her family's business stronger, she had no choice but to accept her fate after an unsuccessful attempt at absconding right before the wedding. But with each new discovery about him, she realized that the masked husband she despised so much had several layers that tugged at her heartstrings, giving her no choice but to fall deeply for him. However, what happens when the dreary and dark secrets from his past resurfaces and threatens to disrupt not just their blooming relationship and his position as Capo, but their existence as well?