Jill Frevert

For six years, I played the perfect, compliant Mafia wife to the ruthless Boss of the New York underworld. Until I discovered he had secretly gifted my fifth-anniversary present—a custom armored car—to Isabella, a Capo's beautiful widow. He drained our personal escape funds of millions to buy her a heavily fortified luxury safehouse. He even publicly humiliated me, demanding I lend her the Vitiello family's heirloom diamond necklace so she could play the boss lady in front of his men. The final blow came when I needed life-threatening surgery to remove an old piece of shrapnel from a bullet meant for him. The underground doctor needed Dante's verbal authorization and the vault code to proceed. "Stop being so dramatic, I can't leave Isabella right now, she's having a panic attack," he snapped and hung up the phone. I had to force the terrified doctor at gunpoint to operate on me. I flatlined twice on that filthy operating table, bleeding out in agony while the man I loved held another woman's hand. Lying there, I finally understood that my absolute devotion and silent sacrifices meant absolutely nothing to him. So, I survived, left my blood-oath ring on his mahogany desk, and walked out of the penthouse forever. I dialed a secure line to his greatest rivals, the Chicago Outfit. "I'm breaking my ties to the Vitiello Family, and I have your East Coast port strategies."

To save my family's dying company, I was forced to marry a billionaire I hadn't seen in fourteen years. But right outside the City Clerk's office, he tossed our marriage certificate at me like a cheap receipt and shoved a four-year-old boy into my arms. "Your new life has begun. You're on babysitting duty now." He sneered and left me stranded on the sidewalk. I realized with absolute horror that my new husband was Ellsworth Marshall, the sickly boy I had relentlessly bullied in middle school. He didn't spend five billion dollars to save the Bradford family. He bought me to execute a slow, suffocating revenge. He used his orphaned nephew as a pawn, explicitly threatening my father that if I failed to play the perfect, compliant nanny, he would instantly destroy our family's legacy. He even had his guards lock me out of his Long Island estate on my first night, forcing me to stand in the cold dark just to prove he owned me. I was trapped in a gilded cage, suffocated by the guilt of my past and the terror of my present. Why did he involve an innocent child in his twisted vendetta? How much humiliation was enough to pay for my childhood cruelty? Looking at the terrified little boy clinging to my skirt, I tightened my grip on my suitcase. If he wanted to destroy my will piece by piece, I had to find a way to survive the monster I created.

For five years, I was a ghost in the Spencer Pack, a placeholder wife for an Alpha who couldn't stand the sight of me. I endured the neglect, believing my loyalty would eventually win him over. But at the Moon Ball, when his mistress mocked my disabled mother and I finally stood up for myself, Easton didn't defend me. Instead, he used his Alpha Command to force me to my knees in front of the entire pack. "Submit," he growled, stripping away my dignity. The humiliation didn't end there. He forced me to chauffeur him and his mistress to their romantic getaway. He watched silently as they fed me raw meat like a feral dog. And when his mistress framed me for stealing the Luna necklace, he didn't check the cameras. He looked at me with pure disgust and threw me into the silver cells. He didn't know I was the "Ghost Designer" behind his company's massive success. He didn't know I had lost our child alone on the bathroom floor three years ago while he was on vacation with her. He only saw a wolfless Omega he could use and discard. Standing in that cold cell, the love I held for him finally turned to ash. I realized I wasn't waiting for him to love me; I was waiting for permission to leave. I looked at the man who promised to protect me and spoke the words that would destroy him. "I, Brooke Rollins, reject you, Easton Spencer." As he clutched his chest in agony, the bond snapping like a whip, I walked out of the cell and into the arms of the rival Alpha who saw my true worth.

On our seventh anniversary, my husband Dante tossed divorce papers onto the desk. He looked at me with cold indifference, his hand resting on the swollen belly of his nineteen-year-old mistress. "You are barren, Seraphina," he spat. "She carries my legacy. You carry nothing but ghosts." When I tried to argue, he shoved me. I fell hard, my back slamming against the concrete floor of the studio. Pain tore through my abdomen, and warm blood began to pool beneath my red dress. The tragedy wasn't just the violence; it was the truth he didn't know. The IVF hadn't failed. I was pregnant with the son he had desperately prayed for. And in his rage to protect a mistress carrying a stranger's baby, he had just killed his own flesh and blood. He stepped over my bleeding body and took her to the Commission Auction to celebrate. He thought I was broken. He thought I was finished. But he forgot that I knew all his secrets. I woke up in the hospital, signed the papers that froze his entire fortune, and walked straight into the gala. I stood before the most dangerous men in New York and threw a medical file onto Dante's table. "You killed your real son today when you pushed me," I said, my voice slicing through the silence. "As for hers? It can't be yours, Dante." "Because according to this, you have been sterile for seven years."

My daughter Jodie died in my arms. The doctor' s words were a death sentence: "Severe neglect. Malnutrition. Multiple internal injuries." But my husband, the famous life coach Julian Maynard, didn't mourn. He issued a public statement. He called Jodie a "challenging child" and twisted her death into a tragedy about mental health, all to enhance his compassionate image. He even publicly forgave the boy who had tormented her, the same boy he brought into our home to teach Jodie "resilience." My own life ended in a fire, a final, violent release from a world of his making. As the flames consumed me, I couldn't understand. How could the man I loved build his legacy on the grave of our daughter and the ruins of my life? Then, I opened my eyes. The divorce papers sat on the table, his signature a stark black stain. It was years earlier. Before the fire. Before Jodie died.

For ten years, I was the invisible architect of my husband's tech empire, forced to manage his parade of publicly funded mistresses. But he crossed a line when he destroyed my father's last legacy-a priceless block of marble-to carve a statue for his new obsession, Isla. When I confronted him, he had me shot, poisoned, and left for dead in a basement. He framed me for attempting to murder Isla, turning our entire world against me. He chose her, always her, even as she dragged me to a cliff's edge, ready to push me into the ocean below. "Choose, Elliott!" she screamed. "Her or me!" "You," he choked out, his eyes on Isla. "I choose you." With his betrayal echoing in the wind, Isla threw my father's sculpture into the sea. And as the last piece of my heart sank into the abyss, I smiled. Then, I jumped.

For five years, my husband, Courtland Johnson, had me locked in a rehabilitation center, telling the world I was a murderer who had killed my own stepsister. On the day of my release, he was waiting. The first thing he did was swerve his car directly at me, trying to run me down before I even left the curb. My punishment, it turned out, was only just beginning. Back at the mansion I once called home, he locked me in a dog kennel. He forced me to kowtow to my "dead" sister's portrait until my head bled onto the marble floor. He made me drink a potion to ensure my "tainted bloodline" would end with me. He even tried to give me to a lecherous business partner for the night, a "lesson" for my defiance. But the cruelest truth was yet to come. My stepsister, Kinsley, was alive. My five years of hell were all part of her sick game. And when my little brother Aspen, my only reason for living, witnessed my humiliation, she had him thrown down a flight of stone steps. My husband watched him die and did nothing. Dying from my injuries and a broken heart, I threw myself from a hospital window, my last thought a vow of revenge. I opened my eyes again. I was back on the day of my release. The warden's voice was flat. "Your husband has arranged it. He's waiting." This time, I would be the one waiting. To drag him, and everyone who wronged me, straight to hell.

The acceptance letter from Atheria Art Academy was heavy in my hands, promising a future I' d dreamed of with my childhood friends, Jake and Noah. We all got in, scholarships secured. But then, Jake' s smile faltered. He and Noah dropped a bombshell: they weren' t going to Atheria; they were choosing community college, all for the new girl, Emily, who' d appeared just months ago. "It' s because of Emily," Jake stated, his voice filled with a righteousness that grated on my nerves. "She needs us. She' s going to Northwood, so we' re going with her." I wanted to scream, to shake them, but then shimmering, golden letters appeared before my eyes, a phantom message only I could see: "If the supporting character continues to hinder, the male leads will design to lose her scholarship documents. She will then fall down the stairs while looking for them, resulting in permanent leg paralysis, spending the rest of her life in a wheelchair." More words appeared: "She deserves it! Anyone who obstructs the plot will face consequences!" The world spun. Supporting character? Male leads? This was a cheap novel come to life, and I was slated for paralysis. My blood ran cold, the words I was about to say dying on my lips. They weren't just making a stupid choice; they were agents of a predetermined, horrifying destiny. My family had given them everything, treated them like sons, and this was their repayment? Becoming pawns who would see me crippled? No. I refused. I choked down the bitter taste of betrayal and forced a calm over my face. "If you' ve made up your minds, then go to community college." They looked surprised, then relieved, completely missing the quiet fury in my eyes. They thought they were choosing a different path. They had no idea they had just chosen to walk off a cliff.

The call came on a Tuesday, shattering my world: my parents, gone. My startup, built on their dreams, imploded soon after, leaving me with crushing debt and hollow ambition. Friends vanished, family offered dismissive condolences, and I was left a failure, a walking tragedy they wanted no part of. Then, Emily Vance appeared. She organized my parents' funeral with quiet grace, held my hand as their caskets were lowered, and publicly defied her powerful family, declaring, "I' m marrying him. He needs me." For five years, she was my rock as I launched and shuttered ninety-nine ventures, each ending in failure. Tonight, our fifth anniversary, I was ready to celebrate her unwavering belief. But through the quiet hum of the restaurant, I heard Chloe' s cynical voice slice through the air: "Ninety-nine failures, Em. When are you going to drop the charity case?" Emily' s familiar laugh, once my comfort, now twisted into a chilling sound. "Patience, Chloe. It' s almost over. Mark' s company just secured another round of funding. All thanks to Liam' s latest 'failure' ." Mark Turner. Her ex. My rival. The man whose company eerily mirrored my own failed concepts. My roses felt like lead. "You' re still feeding him Liam' s data?" Chloe asked, awe in her voice. "Of course," Emily purred, dripping with satisfaction. "Every core algorithm, every business plan. Liam' s a genius at ideas, but a terrible businessman. Mark is brilliant at execution. It' s the perfect partnership, really. They just don' t both know they' re in it." My salvation was a lie. Our marriage, a business transaction. My grief, my struggle, my desperate hope-all harvested and fed to another man. "I' m proposing to Mark tonight," she continued, delivering the final blow. "This anniversary dinner is the last one, I promise. A final goodbye to five years of wasted time." The world dissolved around me. My entrepreneurial dreams, killed not by incompetence, but by the most intimate betrayal imaginable. I wouldn't go quietly. Not as the broken man she thought I was. I stepped away, the plan already forming to collect every piece of evidence. My salvation had been a lie. Now, my ruin would be her truth.

For seven years, I poured my soul into "Pixelated Promises," a game that was meant to be the living embodiment of my love story with Liam. I envisioned it as the grand finale, the pixelated masterpiece that would finally lead to his proposal. But at the biggest gaming convention of the year, my world shattered as I watched him on the main stage, showcasing my game, rebranded as "Digital Destiny," with his ex-girlfriend, Sophia, at his side. My characters, my art, my life's work-all presented as her vision, while Liam stood by, beaming, completely oblivious to the dawning horror on my face. He dismissed my pain, my betrayal, and every question I had, brushing it all off as "just a rebranding" for "the good of the project" because Sophia had a "huge following." He even had the audacity to suggest that since I "hated the spotlight," I should just "lend" her my life' s work. Later, I overheard conversations confirming my worst fears: Liam and Sophia' s collaboration wasn't new; it was a premeditated plan spanning years, and I was just a temporary placeholder until his "real love" was available. My seven-year relationship, my dreams, my very identity-all crumbled into dust, proving I had been nothing more than a convenient tool. Adding insult to injury, he exploited my critical illness, diagnosed just weeks prior, to manipulate me into continuing to provide technical support for their game. Then, I stumbled upon a file on our shared server: "Sophia_Game_Proposal_V1.docx," a document containing my deeply personal design notes from five years ago-notes I hadn' t even shared with him-now stolen and claimed as Sophia' s "inspiration." When confronted, Liam, with sickening nonchalance, asked me to "just let it go" for Sophia's sake, utterly oblivious to the fact that I was dying. That night, amidst the hollow celebrations for "Digital Destiny," I sent Liam a final text: "We're done. Don't contact me." The next morning, he showed up at my door, feigning shock at the breakup, and then, in a desperate, performative gesture, knelt and proposed with a diamond ring. But his theatrical display meant nothing; the man I loved had already stolen everything from me. When he stumbled upon my medical report, confirming my terminal illness, he crumbled, blaming Sophia, begging for forgiveness. Yet, his tears were too late; the man I had loved for seven years had left me with nothing but ashes. I was done fighting not for myself, but for the devastated faces of my parents, I agreed to one last, futile treatment. In the faint light of an old arcade, surrounded by the ghosts of our past, I calmly told Liam, "We had a good dream once, Liam. It was a beautiful promise," accepting the end with quiet dignity.

Jack Miller, my big brother and the powerful head of Miller Corp, was presenting university scholarships, a yearly family tradition. He made a simple comment to a young student, Sarah Vance, noting she shared my exact birthday – same day, month, year, even the hour. It was a throwaway line, but for Sarah, it became a spark, igniting a terrifying delusion. In my first life, that delusion grew into a monstrous lie: she convinced herself she was the true Miller heiress, inexplicably switched at birth. That monstrous lie led directly to my murder. I can still feel the damp chill of the abandoned warehouse, Sarah's eyes blazing with feverish triumph, the faces of the two hired thugs, Spike and Knuckles. But nothing cut deeper than seeing Ethan Hayes, my own fiancé, standing by, watching it all unfold. "She deserves it," Ethan had said, his voice devoid of emotion. "For everything she took from you, Sarah." The utter betrayal was a punch to the gut. Liam Hayes, Ethan' s gentle cousin, tried to intervene, but they easily overpowered him. Then, the dark, churning water of the river enveloped my head, Liam struggling beside me before falling still himself. How could this happen? How could I be killed for a fictional claim, abandoned by the man I loved? Darkness. Until now. I jolted awake, gasping, my eyes snapping open to the familiar, faded floral wallpaper. It was the same dusty smell, the exact same day. The day of the kidnapping. I was back. Reborn. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs. This second chance wouldn't be wasted. I wouldn't be their victim again. This time, I would fight back.

My life with tech billionaire Ethan Hayes, two seemingly perfect children, and a meticulously managed household in New York City, was outwardly flawless, a gilded cage where my tireless efforts remained invisible and unappreciated. I awakened abruptly, not in the sterile care facility of my terrifying premonition where I lay neglected and alone near death, but startlingly, in my own bedroom, vibrant and 35, now burdened with a chilling crystal-clear replay of a future where Ethan' s deep-seated affection for his college sweetheart, Chloe Vance, alongside our children' s gradual alienation, directly led to my abandonment and lonely demise. Recognizing this as a dire warning rather than a dream, I swiftly filed for divorce, deliberately setting the stage for Chloe to replace me, hoping to avert the impending tragedy, a decision that paradoxically accelerated my projected torment. Chloe' s insidious infiltration deepened, turning my children against me, culminating horrifically when my son, EJ, falsely accused me of enabling his severe peanut allergy, prompting Ethan, believing their cruel lie, to forcibly spoon peanut butter into my mouth, and as I choked on the allergen, my children chillingly clapped, proclaiming, "Now she knows!" The excruciating pain of that forced ingestion, quickly followed by EJ's vengeful shove that brutally fractured my ankle-all met with Ethan's callous indifference and Chloe' s feigned concern-left my heart a barren wasteland, utterly consuming every ounce of the love and years of devoted care I had bestowed upon them. With an unwavering, steel-cold resolution, declaring "I' m the nanny. And the nanny quits," I severed every remaining tie, abandoning the mansion and their poisonous presence for a new life, irrevocably free, leaving them to face the consequences of their shocking cruelty.

My dad vanished four years ago on Widow's Peak, a notorious trail. I thought I'd finally found closure when rangers declared him dead, burying his ruined journal in our backyard. But then, late one night, the back door creaked open, and he was back. Not really. He was a horrifying shell of a man, caked in dirt, radiating a preternatural chill, and grinning with an empty, fixed smile. My mom, Linda, took one look at him and whispered, "That is not your father," before fleeing, leaving me alone with it. Desperate, I unearthed Dad's journal, its water-damaged pages filled with warnings, and a chilling photo of Carol, my biological mother, dead near a cave. His last legible entry, scrawled in what looked like blood, screamed: "MAYA! LINDA ISN'T YOUR MOTHER!" My world shattered. Who was Carol? And if Linda wasn't my mother, then who was she, the woman who raised me, now possibly a betrayer? I had to unearth every dark secret the Appalachian mountains held, from the chilling 'Hollow Man' in my living room to the twisted truth of my family, even if it meant confronting the woman who sacrificed everything for me.

I was Ava Miller, Hollywood's top PR guru, thriving at my firm, happily pregnant with my fiancé Ethan's child. One ordinary evening, Ethan's familiar tea tasted odd. Darkness. I awoke tied to a chair, dimly lit, only to see Rex Donovan, my volatile client, standing there. And Ethan. My Ethan. My blood ran cold as Ethan, with chilling casualness, exposed his betrayal, blaming me for an intern’s past disappearance. He fed Rex a grotesque lie, fueling the rock star's rage. The pain was unimaginable; Rex ensured I knew he was killing my baby first, tearing my world apart. As darkness embraced me, my last sight was Ethan, watching, his face a mask of pure hatred. "Why?" I choked, blood filling my mouth, grappling with this unfathomable betrayal. Then, a jolt. I gasped, bolt upright in my office chair, my stomach flat. The calendar showed it was *that* day – the day Chloe Sanders first walked in, asking for the Rex Donovan case. I was back.

I spent my entire youth supporting Mathias, but when I saw the video of him naked on my best friend's body, I activated the revenge button! I personally pushed him into an irreversible abyss, then manipulated public opinion to force my best friend to jump from the top floor and fall into a pile of flesh. In our entanglement, I became the ultimate winner! But why do I not feel an ounce of joy in victory?

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.

My husband, Don Lorenzo Bianchi, the man who once took ninety-nine lashes for me, had just locked me in a guest room. I was four months pregnant with our child, the heir to his mafia empire. My crime was throwing a glass of wine on his mistress, a woman he had moved into our home. She cornered me in the garden, gloating that once the baby was born, he would give it to her to raise as her own. Later, she shoved me down the grand staircase, then threw herself down after me, screaming to my husband that I had tried to kill her. As I lay in a pool of my own blood, Lorenzo rushed past me, scooping her into his arms and carrying her away without a single backward glance. To force me to apologize, he had my parents brought to my hospital room and brutally whipped until they collapsed at his feet. He was no longer the man who had 999 crystals sewn into my wedding dress. He was a monster who believed every lie she told and punished me for her crimes. How could the man who swore to love me forever become this cruel stranger? But he didn't know the truth. Days before the fall, I had secretly terminated the pregnancy. I took the urn containing our child's ashes, filed for divorce, and disappeared from his world forever.

She went to lose her virginity to her boyfriend... But woke up in his father's bed. Now, Isabella is trapped between two dangerous men- one who thinks he owns her... and one who refuses to let her go. Secrets. Desire. Betrayal. And a Mafia King who never shares what's his.

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.

Three days before the wedding. I was hiding in the dressing room, watching my fiancé caress the swollen belly of another woman. Luca, the man who had saved my life five years ago, was smiling at his mistress, Sofia. But the real knife to the heart wasn't the affair—it was the dress. The custom wedding gown he had "lovingly" ordered for me featured intricate silver embroidery along the hem. It didn't spell Elena. It read Sofia. He was planning to make me walk down the aisle wearing his mistress's name. Later that night, I found a video of him mocking me to his crew, calling me a "dead fish" and admitting he only wanted my family's Capo status. He planned to keep his "true love" on the side while I played the role of the oblivious, ornamental wife. He thought I was just a sheltered princess. He forgot that my bloodline was built on vengeance. I didn't cry. I didn't confront him. Instead, I scrubbed his scent off my skin and dialed a number everyone in Chicago feared. "The pact with the Cavallaro family," I asked my father, my voice cold as stone. "Is it still valid?" "Dante is the Underboss now," my father warned. "He is a butcher. He breaks men for sport." "Good," I replied. "I am done playing with boys." I secretly booked the Gold Ballroom across the hall from my original venue. Luca thought he was walking into a marriage on Saturday. He didn't know I was bringing a monster to the altar instead.

I was the wife of Dante Cavalli, the most ruthless mafia Don in the country. But today, his Underboss slid mandatory annulment papers across my hospital bed, ordering me to dissolve our marriage. In my past life, I dropped to my knees and begged them not to abandon me. I spent the next thirty years locked in Dante's massive penthouse, waiting for a man who bathed the streets in blood but never gave me a single drop of warmth. My aristocratic mother-in-law stripped me of every cent, leaving me completely isolated. I foolishly threw away a brilliant surgical career to be a submissive, obedient mafia wife. In the end, Dante never came to see me, and I died entirely alone in that massive, empty bed. Until my last breath, my chest was suffocated by a lifetime of regrets. I couldn't understand why I had sacrificed my freedom and my scalpels for a man who would only feel a twisted guilt decades after I was already a cold corpse. Opening my eyes again, Fate had dragged me back to the exact day my nightmare truly began. Matteo stood at the foot of my bed, clearly expecting my usual pathetic tears. "Take your time to think about it." This time, I didn't cry or beg for my life. I just picked up the fountain pen, signed my name, and walked out to reclaim the scalpel I had abandoned.

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.

On my wedding day, my father sold me to the Chicago Outfit to pay his debts. I was supposed to marry Alex Moreno, the heir to the city's most powerful crime family. But he couldn't even be bothered to show up. As I stood alone at the altar, humiliated, my best friend delivered the final blow. Alex hadn't just stood me up; he had run off to California with his mistress. The whispers in the cathedral turned me into a joke. I was damaged goods, the rejected bride. His family knew the whole time and let me take the public fall, offering me his cousins as pathetic replacements-a brute who hated me or a coward who couldn't protect me. The humiliation burned away my fear, leaving only cold rage. My life was already over, so I decided to set the whole game on fire myself. The marriage pact only said a Carlson had to marry a Moreno; it never said which one. With nothing left to lose, I looked past the pathetic boys they offered. I chose the one man they never expected. I chose his father, the Don himself.

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

I was 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."