Sutton Horsley

I threw a latte on the most dangerous man in New York and lived to tell about it. Dante Vitiello. The Capo dei Capi. A man rumored to cut out tongues for interrupting his dinner. Instead of a bullet to the brain, he handed me a black card and a terrifying ultimatum. "I need a fiancée," he told me, his eyes dead cold. To save my failing journalism career and my life, I signed a contract with the devil. I had to wear his massive diamond ring, smile for the cameras, and pretend to be the love of his life to stop a political mafia marriage. The rules were clear: Absolute obedience. Total exclusivity. And absolutely no feelings. But the performance started to feel dangerous. When a rival Don insulted me at a gala, Dante didn't just play the part—he threatened to butcher him in front of three hundred people. When I saw the jagged scars on his chest in the dead of night, I didn't see a monster; I saw a lonely protector. My investigation was supposed to expose him, but I was the one getting stripped bare. Then his cousin Rocco stormed in, calling me a disposable whore and a temporary pawn. I stood my ground, defending not just myself, but Dante too. Dante looked at me then, not as an asset, but as a woman he wanted to devour. He stepped closer, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through my bones. "I think we are going to have a problem with the clause about 'no feelings'."

For ten years, I was the indispensable right hand and fiancée to star architect Declan Sharp. I poured my life into his career, sacrificing my own ambitions for us. Our wedding was just weeks away. But my world shattered when I saw him with the new intern, Kisha. He was showing her my design, the one he called "competent," and proudly saying, "This is Kisha's idea." It got worse. He stole my groundbreaking research paper for her, then publicly dismissed me as a mere "drafting assistant." My own family attacked me, furious I had lost their meal ticket. I was just a tool. A convenient machine he used to build his empire. He never loved me; he loved what I did for him. So when he tried to kiss me to shut me up, I slapped him. I deleted every file, every blueprint, every trace of my work from his life. Then I blocked his number and bought a one-way ticket to Detroit. This time, I was building a life for myself.

For seven years, I was the rejected mate of Alpha Kaelan Blackwood. But he never wanted me; he only ever wanted Livia, the woman he'd grown up with. When Livia framed me for stealing a priceless necklace, Kaelan didn't even hesitate. "You disgusting Omega," he spat. "You are not even worthy of licking the dirt from her shoes." Then he had his guards cuff me in silver and drag me to the cells, all while Livia wept crocodile tears in his arms. As they hauled me away, I saw him flinch, a flicker of pain from our severed bond crossing his face. But he did nothing. In that moment, seven years of foolish hope finally died. The next day, after my mother bailed me out, a rival Alpha found me at the airport. He offered me a position as his Chief Strategic Advisor, with one goal: to destroy Kaelan’s empire. I accepted without a second thought.

For five years, Olivia loved Mark. But his heart belonged to another, so he decided to destroy her reputation, framing her as a cheater and ruining her name in their tight-knit community. Just as she was about to end it all, Mark' s brother, Ethan, pulled her back, whispering promises of love and marriage. He seemed like her savior, shielding her from gossip and rebuilding her confidence. But on the eve of their wedding, Olivia overheard Ethan revealing the truth: their marriage was a sham, designed to clear Mark' s name and allow him to marry his true love, Sophia. Olivia was just a pawn, an obstacle neatly moved aside. Heartbroken and enraged, she fled, only to be reminded of her heroic parents and a fierce new purpose ignited within her. After giving up everything to find her, Ethan and Mark finally located Olivia two years later. They begged for forgiveness, but she kept them at arm's length, even after they saved her life in a deadly attack. Now, she's leaving again, for good this time, choosing freedom over their desperate apologies.

Five years ago, my company went bankrupt, burying me under mountains of debt. It was the lowest point of my life, yet I still believed I had my family. I was wrong. The day bankruptcy was finalized, my parents and younger brother called a family meeting. I expected comfort, a plan. Instead, my mother coldly declared, "Ethan, we're done. We can't be associated with this failure." My father nodded along, and my brother Kevin smirked, announcing they were disowning me in the paper. They left me in the shell of my office, with nothing but debt and the echoing sound of their betrayal. For five years, I clawed my way back, sleeping in a storage unit, eating instant noodles, taking every coding job I could find. My second company, Phoenix Innovations, just closed a nine-figure deal. I wasn't just back on my feet; I was flying higher than ever. Then the phone rang. It was my mother, her voice dripping with fake emotion. She gushed about how proud they were, then immediately shifted, claiming they had fallen on hard times. She asked for five million dollars and a Senior Vice President position for my father. I almost laughed at their shameless audacity. "No," I said, the word simple and final. Her voice turned venomous, "After everything we've done for you? We are your parents! You have a duty to take care of us!" My duty? I reminded them of the newspaper notice disowning me. They sputtered, claiming it was just a formality. I countered with their forged medical reports and my father's convenient recovery. "I owe you nothing," I said. "You made your choice five years ago. Live with it. Don't ever call me again." I hung up, blocking their number. The peace I had fought for felt about to shatter.

For five years, I was a ghost in my own life, a silent wife to my deceased sister' s husband, raising children who treated me like their servant. Then came the accidental pregnancy, a tiny flicker of hope that was brutally extinguished when Mark, my stoic husband, ordered the doctors to let me and our baby die during a complicated labor. I survived, but he delivered the news of our baby' s death with chilling conviction, feigning grief while his eyes held only contempt. He gaslighted me, convincing me I was hysterical, that my memory of a baby' s first cry was a delusion. "Your duty is not to this dead child," he sneered, "Your duty is to Josh and Emma." My world fractured further as his cruelty escalated. He turned our niece and nephew into miniature tyrants who physically abused me, killed the only kind soul in the house, my maid Lily, for daring to question him, and then, in a final sadistic blow, let my parents die after I begged for money to save them. Lying beaten and broken, listening to the casual gossip about my parents' car accident, something inside me snapped. The old Chloe, the one who tried to please everyone, died on that cold marble floor. A new, more terrifying resolve began to form.

Ten years. That' s how long it took for Sarah Miller to finally be Mrs. Ethan Black. But on their wedding day, Dr. Ethan Black didn't show up. Instead, his assistant delivered a "no-questions-asked forgiveness voucher" -his excuse? His socialite ex, Brittany Hayes' s show dog was sick. When I tried to talk to him, I walked in on Brittany lounging on my sofa, her dog chewing my shoe. Before I could process the scene, the dog attacked, sinking its teeth into my leg. Brittany slapped me, then shrieked, "He' s a prized show dog! If you' ve hurt him, I' ll kill you!" And Ethan? He stood by, watching, ultimately telling me to apologize to the dog. He even tried to give me another voucher, an invoice for my humiliation. But the ultimate blow came at my mother' s grave, which Brittany claimed was now hers. With Ethan' s complicity, she scattered my mother' s ashes, then broke my arm. I was left for dead, but I survived. Ethan thinks I' m gone, that a debt has been paid. He has no idea. Now, it' s my turn to make him pay, to show him what happens when you use up all your chances-and all my unconditional love.

For eight years, I poured my soul into this prestigious firm, fueled by a secret, burning love for my boss, David Chen. I pushed my own artistic dreams aside, endured endless hours, and navigated the cutthroat corporate world, all for a crumb of his attention, a fleeting nod of approval. Then came Emily, the charming new junior architect who effortlessly captured the warmth and affection David had always withheld from me. In a brutal office confrontation, he publicly dismissed me, then I later discovered the devastating truth: a calendar notification on his phone, "Dinner with Emily's parents. Discuss ring." My world shattered. The love I' d built my life around was a mirage, and I was just an invisible cog in David' s meticulously planned future. The sting of rejection, the deep, soul-crushing humiliation of realizing I had sacrificed everything for nothing, left me reeling. He hadn' t just overlooked me for a promotion; he' d completely erased me from a future I' d foolishly dared to dream of. But then, as I clutched my signed resignation letter, the anger ignited a new path. I wasn't just walking away; I was running towards a future uniquely my own, a destiny far removed from David Chen and the hollow ambitions of corporate life.

The imperial selection, a grand affair that could secure a family' s fortune, was upon us. But in the Thompson household, excitement was replaced by a chilling demand. My mother, Mrs. Thompson, gripped my hands, her face a mask of strained concern. "Sarah, you have to do this for us. For the family." She wanted me to go to the selection in my cousin Emily' s place, "fail gracefully," and return home a nobody. I looked at her, her words a haunting echo from a life I' d already lived. The last time, I believed her. I failed as instructed, but nobody ever came for me. I spent three years as a low-ranking intern, enduring humiliation and grueling labor, clinging to the promise of my family. When I finally scraped enough money to return, I found red lanterns and festive decorations. My cousin, Emily, was marrying my fiancé. My mother saw me at the gate, tattered and starved. "What are you doing here?" she spat. "You' re an embarrassment. Go away." The gates slammed shut, laughter from inside filling my ears as I collapsed in the snow, my life bleeding away. Then, I woke up. Back in my room, my mother' s voice a poisonous murmur. "Sarah, you have to do this for us." A bitter laugh almost escaped. I was back, at the very moment of my ruin. But this time, things would be different. I pulled my hands from her grasp, a cold resolve settling in my heart. "I will go. But I will go as Sarah Thompson. And I will not fail."

My life was simple. I worked double shifts at a greasy diner, aching from cleaning. I handed over every cent to my supposedly struggling parents. I believed their stories about hardship. I believed in my mom's messy divorce. I believed my sister lived far away. This was my duty. Then, strange comments started flashing in my vision. They were like overlays on a screen. "LOL, he's not even trying to hide it anymore." My world spun. "Her 'dad' is an actor." Was my whole life a social experiment? The truth hit harder than any physical blow. My "broke" family lived in a mansion. They were raking in money from my misery. My sister, Jessie, whom I thought was miles away, was complicit. She deliberately lured me into a trap. I was mugged. My arm was broken. My college dreams were shattered. Their betrayal was undeniable, a physical ache. How could they? How could my own family turn my entire existence into a performance? They profited from my pain and poverty for strangers. The coldness that settled in me was absolute. Every act of kindness, every sacrifice, had been a lie. Their cruel show demanded I stay trapped. They even tried to buy my silence. They offered me luxury if I covered for Jessie. They thought I was still their 'manageable' victim. But they were wrong. With a hidden recording and newfound resolve, I looked them in the eye. I demanded my freedom. This wasn't just my story anymore; it was my fight.

Our trip to the San Juan Islands was supposed to save my marriage. I loved Chloe completely, even sacrificing a kidney for her years ago. This getaway, she promised, was just for us. But onshore, her icy betrayal began. She smashed my satellite phone, threw my wallet in the water, and watched Marcus pour my vital kidney medication into the sea. "Liam needs this baby," she hissed. "You were always a complication." They left me to die, stranded on that desolate island. I died that night, alone. I awoke a ghost, trapped as an unseen witness. Liam usurped my life, claiming my kidney donation and moving into my home. He poisoned Chloe's mind, convincing her I'd abandoned them. He brutally killed our dog, Buddy. When my remains were found and my ashes offered, Chloe-believing it my cruel trick-tragically trampled them. My love, my sacrifice, my very existence erased, twisted into lies. As a silent, raging specter, I endured her profound delusion, unable to shatter Liam' s lies. This desecration of my memory was a death beyond physical pain. Yet, hope unexpectedly flickered. Months later, our son, Leo, fell gravely ill. At the hospital, Chloe overheard doctors detailing my kidney donation and my missed medical appointments. The chilling truth of Liam' s lies, and my sacrifice, finally shattered her reality. The true horror had just begun.

My Manhattan penthouse, a testament to my late father-in-law Michael Rossi's empire, felt like a gilded cage. As Michael' s chosen "legacy guardian," I was loyal, a steady presence. But to his daughter, my wife Isabella, I was just background noise, an obstacle to her obsession: rockstar Jules Vance. One day, she swept in, reeking of expensive perfume, ready to jettison for Austin and Jules. I handed her a stack of company papers, including a marital separation agreement Marc and I had subtly slipped in. Without a glance, she scribbled her name, dismissing our anniversary, her father's legacy, and me. Her heels clicked away, the door slamming shut, sealing my fate. She hadn't even noticed the separation. I was bound by a promise to a dead man, meant to protect a woman who saw me as a ghost, a joke to her and her flamboyant lover. Her casual cruelty and constant dismissal had built an insurmountable wall. Years of emotional suffocation, of being the quiet anchor to a woman who resented stability, finally took their toll. How could a marriage, painstakingly built by her visionary father, a man who saw me as a trusted son, be dissolved with such a careless flick of a pen? Her indifference was a brutal symbol of her utter disregard. I was simply exhausted. This time, her ignorance was my liberation. With her signature on that separation agreement, the decision was unequivocally made. I packed a single duffel bag, climbed into my old pickup truck, and drove north. Leaving the glittering city, the endless drama, and the woman who didn't want it, irrevocably behind. My new life had finally begun.

My life as a New York socialite was a carefully constructed facade, enduring my husband Richard' s relentless affairs and emotional cruelty. I stayed for our daughter, Lily, and the prestigious Harrison name. But everything shattered when Richard brazenly paraded Chloe, his young associate, into our lives. She wore my perfume, used my hand cream, and tried to charm my child, while he publicly shamed me, always choosing her. The ultimate betrayal came when I discovered Chloe wasn' t just his mistress: she was my half-sister, daughter of my late father, desecrating his memory to further her own agenda. His casual cruelties turned violent, isolating me further. Then, a positive pregnancy test, a brutal reminder of his control, felt like a cruel joke-until it ignited a chilling realization. This unwanted life could be my weapon. Every forced smile, every feigned acceptance, became a calculated move in my new game. How could I escape this gilded cage, reclaim my dignity, and protect my daughter, when the man I married was systematically erasing me? And how far would I go to ensure his family' s precious legacy became my ultimate leverage? My plan began with a single, icy demand made to his powerful parents, a threat so audacious it sent shivers through their old money veins.

I finally got it: the limited-edition designer bag I' d tracked for months. It felt like a small reward after years of quietly propping up my husband Mark and his entire family. Tonight, I planned to debut it at our usual Sunday family dinner. But when I walked in, my stomach dropped. My sister-in-law, Chloe-a wannabe social media influencer with a history of copying me-was holding the exact same bag. She chirped "twinsies!" then escalated, crying theatrically and demanding I not use mine. "It loses its appeal," she whined, "especially on someone… older." Mark' s parents, Michael and Patricia, instantly leapt to her defense, accusing me of showing off and being "ostentatious." Patricia even threw in her usual jab about me not having children, despite my funding their lifestyle. I waited for Mark, my husband, to stand up for me. Instead, he looked up from his phone, sighed, and said, "Sarah, come on. Don't make a scene. Just let her have her moment." Then, the ultimate blow: he suggested I give Chloe my brand-new bag, "You can always buy another one, right?" My throat closed. Give away what I' d earned? To appease a manipulator and her enablers? He dismissed me, my feelings, my purchase. It wasn' t just about the bag. It was about years of silent tolerance, of being an ATM, of being thrown under the bus by the man who was supposed to be my partner. The sheer, infuriating injustice of it all. That was the moment something inside me snapped. Cold, hard resolve settled in. "No," I said, picking up my bag. "I will not be giving Chloe my bag." Then, looking at Mark, I added, "We need to talk. Privately. Now." In the hallway, I uttered the words that would change everything: "I want a divorce, Mark. And I' m filing tomorrow." And for Chloe? I decided she'd have plenty more to copy.

Here’s the translation: "After being by Jeremy's side for ten years, I became the sharpest knife in his hand. He ascended to the throne, yet he wanted me dead. Later, he came to see me. I lowered my gaze and said, 'Let's not meet again.' But he leaned closer, his eyes cold and menacing. 'Not meet again? Justine, you are mine. Never think of leaving me.'"

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."

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?

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 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.

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 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.

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.

For four years, I traced the bullet scar on Chace’s chest, believing it was proof he would bleed to keep me safe. On our anniversary, he told me to wear white because "tonight changes everything." I walked into the gala thinking I was getting a ring. Instead, I stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, drowning in silk, watching him slide his mother's sapphire onto another woman's finger. Karyn Warren. The daughter of a rival family. When I begged him with my eyes to claim me, to save me from the public humiliation, he didn't flinch. He just leaned toward his Underboss, his voice amplified by the silence. "Karyn is for power. Ember is for pleasure. Don't confuse the assets." My heart didn't just break; it incinerated. He expected me to stay as his mistress, threatening to dig up my dead mother’s grave if I refused to play the obedient pet. He thought I was trapped. He thought I had nowhere to go because of my father’s massive gambling debts. He was wrong. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and texted the one name I was never supposed to use. Keith Mosley. The Don. The monster under Chace's bed. *I am invoking the Blood Oath. My father’s debt. I am ready to pay it.* His reply came three seconds later, buzzing against my palm like a warning. *The price is marriage. You belong to me. Yes or No?* I looked up at Chace, who was laughing with his new fiancée, thinking he owned me. I looked down and typed three letters. *Yes.*