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The heavy steel door of the industrial meat locker slammed shut, sealing me in at four degrees below zero. Ten minutes ago, I was the woman Dante Moretti promised to burn the world for. Now, I was the rat accused of poisoning his heir. Dante didn’t just lock me in. He looked at me with eyes devoid of warmth and said, "Evidence says otherwise." He chose the lie of his arranged wife, Sofia, over my truth. For months, I endured the price of loving the Underboss. I watched him marry Sofia in a grand ceremony to secure a family alliance. I let him force me onto a table to drain my blood to save her life when she was injured. I took twenty lashes from his family’s enforcers, all while he stood by and watched, claiming it was necessary to "protect" me. He told me to wait. He told me the marriage was a sham. But when I finally escaped and he came chasing after me, revealing that Sofia was a fraud and he wanted me back, I didn't feel relief. I felt nothing. Even after he threw his body over mine to save me from a collapsing building, taking a jagged shard of timber through his chest, I couldn't forgive him. In the hospital, his mother handed me his journal. It was filled with entries about his undying love for me, written on the very same days he allowed me to be tortured. "Tell him the debt is paid," I told his mother as I handed the book back. "He saved my life. I saved his child. We are even." I turned my back on the ICU and walked out into the rain. Dante Moretti might have been willing to die for me, but he never knew how to live for me.

My husband ordered me to turn around and face the altar. He unbuckled his heavy leather belt, his eyes cold and devoid of mercy. "You need to learn respect," Dante spat. He whipped me in the family chapel until my back was a bloody mess. All because his mistress, Sofia, had framed me for breaking his grandfather's urn. He didn't ask for the truth. He didn't hesitate. He just wanted to punish the wife he considered a burden. As the belt tore into my skin, I didn't scream. I just counted the memories dying. He didn't know I was the one who dove into the frozen lake to save him in high school. He didn't know I was the one who took a knife for him during the ambush. He believed Sofia's lies that she was his savior. I had loved him for ten years. I had bled for him. And in return, he scarred me permanently for a crime I didn't commit. That night, I didn't tend to my wounds. I packed my bags, signed the divorce papers, and swore on the Code of Omertà to never love him again. Three years later, Dante found my old diary hidden under the floorboards. He read the truth about who really saved him, and realized he had tortured his guardian angel. He found me in Paris, fell to his knees in a crowded hotel lobby, and begged for forgiveness with tears in his eyes. I looked at the man who broke me and smiled. "Lie down and die, Dante," I said softly. "Because I have a life to live."

I thought my arranged marriage to the ruthless tycoon Axel Flynn was a love story when he risked his life to save mine. But when his fragile childhood friend, Alicia, arrived, I saw the truth. He would panic if she got a paper cut, but he didn't bat an eye when I jumped out of planes. With his blessing, she stole my company, my life' s work. At my own birthday party, he announced her as the new director. When I screamed the truth, he had me drugged. He threw me into a dark isolation room in the basement for three days, with no food or water, because Alicia claimed I was "unstable." He dragged me out, weak and broken, and demanded I get on my knees to apologize to the woman who had destroyed me. I finally understood. His "love" was never love. It was apathy. He simply didn't care if I lived or died. So, after he believed her final, vicious lie and left me for dead, I took the divorce papers he'd carelessly signed and walked away. This time, for good.

In the third year of their marriage, Liam became infatuated with his new secretary, Lindsay Price. She was open and bold. Her personal motto was "Fortune favors the bold." In bed, she knew countless different positions, and outside of it, she accompanied Liam in various thrilling activities. While he went out with Lindsay, he maintained the facade of a devoted husband by fabricating where he had been to Lillian Walsh. "I'm not coming home tonight. I was drunk, so I'm sleeping at the office." Lindsay chuckled beside him. She said with a hint of teasing provocation, "When are you going to divorce that boring old woman?" The call ended abruptly. Unbeknownst to them, Lillian was sitting in the Obstetrics and Gynecology department and staring at the pregnancy report at her fingertips. She had been pregnant for six weeks. After she left the hospital, she called her brother, Ricky Walsh, who was a lawyer. "Ricky, I need you to make a divorce agreement for me." Ricky paused briefly and then asked, "Are you sure about this?" Lillian replied calmly, "Yes. I'm pregnant. I plan to keep the baby myself."

As Dylan Andrews' kept companion, Elaine Willis was the epitome of perfection. To be readily available for her benefactor, she took on work for only three months each year, filming low-budget movies and maintaining a lukewarm career. Fully aware that Dylan saw her merely as a stand-in for his true love, she accepted it calmly, even deliberately mimicking the style of his beloved. Everyone mocked her as a fragile vine, unable to survive without a man, destined to be chained to Dylan's side forever. Yet, behind his back, she got two male escorts.

After a week in a coma caused by a car accident, Grace Miller's boyfriend, Leonard Stone, suddenly regained his memory. He remembered the girl he longed for but could never have. So, the first thing Leonard did upon waking was to break up with Grace. "Anything that happened during my memory loss wasn't really my choice. From today, let's go our separate ways. Our relationship doesn't hold anymore." Grace didn't try to hold him back. Coincidentally, the new drug research in the lab had just succeeded, and Grace volunteered to participate in the trial. "Once you take this pill, these memories will be permanently erased. Grace, are you sure about your decision?"

I stayed with Ethan Hudson for seven years. He grew bored of me. He found a younger werewolf girl in the clan. I didn't plead for him to stay this time. I discarded the mate-bond stone, burned the protection bracelet I crafted, and left the clan that night. His friends ridiculed me, wagering how soon I'd beg for reconciliation. Ethan, arm around his new girl, laughed and said, "Three days tops. She'll come back crying." Three days passed, then another three, and I never returned. Ethan couldn't wait any longer and contacted me first. "Sylvie, enough with the tantrum..." Victor Wilson, his rival, cut in on the phone. "Ethan, you've got to move fast to win someone back. Too late, and a good girl's gone." Ethan's howl nearly broke the receiver. "Get Sylvie on the phone!" Victor kissed me softly and said, "She can't. She's worn out from last night and just fell asleep."

My fated mate, Richard, and I were preparing for our sacred Mating Ceremony, a vow before the Moon Goddess meant to bind our souls for eternity. But a psychic message slammed into my mind—a weaponized memory sent by his adopted sister, Eva. In it, she was wrapped in Richard's arms while his parents, the Alpha and Luna, beamed with approval. For the next two weeks, I was forced to play the part of the adoring Omega bride. He would lie about "pack emergencies" to run to her, leaving me alone in a gown shop while she sent me visions of their trysts. His parents stripped me of the project I had poured my soul into for two years, handing it to Eva as a gift. They called me a weak-blooded Omega, unworthy of their son. Meanwhile, Eva sent me an audio clip of Richard promising her she would be the one to carry his strong heir, not me. They all thought I was a pathetic, disposable pawn in their twisted game. They were waiting for me to break. They had no idea I was secretly the heir to the most powerful pack on the continent. And I had already arranged for our Mating Ceremony to be broadcast globally, turning their sacred day into the stage for their ultimate humiliation.

On the night of her twenty-sixth birthday, Eliana Walker pushed her wheelchair through bar after bar, scouring every club in sight. It wasn't until she received a call from the police station that her search for Lucien Lane came to an end. "Is this Ms. Walker? Mr. Lane got drunk and started a fight. We need you to come down here." After hanging up, Eliana rubbed warmth into her stiff fingers, unsure whether to feel relief or sorrow. Before dawn, she finally reached the police station, just in time to see Lucien erupting in fury, "Who the hell told you to call her? Sure, she saved my life-but those useless crippled legs have shackled me for ten damn years! If she weren't Ethan's sister, I would've thrown a few million at her to be done with it long ago!" Shards from the shattered bottle sprayed through the air, one slashing across Eliana's face. Her face was slick with wetness-she couldn't tell if it was blood or tears. With trembling hands, Eliana dialed a number. She drew in a deep breath, her voice resolute, "Send out the message worldwide, the Anonymous hacker alliance will no longer offer any support to Lucien Lane's company. If any hackers want to test the strength of Lane Corporation's firewall, be my guest."

Kylee Brooks knelt between Kenney Walsh's legs as she had done countless times before and awkwardly tried to satisfy him. At the moment of passion, Kenney abruptly pushed her away and wheeled himself into the bathroom. He murmured, "Ruth..." Kylee was long used to this and turned to fetch his medicine. She had pursued Kenney for nine years and knew well that he was aloof. When she went to deliver the medicine, she found the bedroom door slightly ajar. Kenney's wheelchair was parked at the door, empty. Kenney pinned Ruth in front of him, and his eyes were blurred as he whispered in her ear, "Ruth, you are mine. You should have been my woman long ago. We depend on each other to become who we are today. I've stayed in a wheelchair to avoid having sex with Kylee. Can't you see how much I love you?" Kylee was stunned and then suddenly realized something. Ruth was Kenney's sister-in-law. She was two years older than Kenney, with a voluptuous figure, yet he never touched her.

The call came on a sunny Tuesday, a day promising peace, as I reviewed blueprints in my home office. Then, my phone vibrated with his name: Ethan Carter, my husband. "Chloe," he said, his voice cold and distant, "We need to get a divorce." He wanted to give "her" legitimate status; he' d met someone. I simply leaned back, my voice flat, "Okay. Then we should do that." He hung up, without a proper goodbye, after arranging for his lawyer to draft the generous settlement papers. My best friend, Maya, on the other hand, exploded, "That son of a bitch! After everything you' ve done for him!" Her fury was a storm I couldn't feel, my own emotions a placid lake. "He wants to give 'the other woman' legitimate status," I recited, the words foreign on my tongue. Maya vowed to burn his suits and sue him for every penny, insisting I was in shock. "It' s okay," I told her, a tired smile touching my lips. "I also had an affair." A different kind of silence fell. "And another thing," I added, looking at my perfect blueprints, "His affair? I arranged it."

The acrid smell of burning plastic filled my lungs, a scent that brought back chilling memories. I was trapped, a massive server rack crushing my leg, as sparks flew and a hellish glow illuminated the terrified face of Tiffany, my boyfriend Liam's "friend." This was it, the moment everything went wrong. Again. Just like in my last life, Liam burst in, scanned the chaotic scene, and without hesitation, rushed to Tiffany, who was barely coughing, leaving me shattered and bleeding under the rack. He looked back, his eyes cold, muttering that Tiffany's family were key investors, and saving her was "for the greater good." He dismissed my crushed leg, promising to come back, then turned his back and vanished with Tiffany, leaving me for dead in a room about to explode. I stared at the man who had murdered me in my previous life, making the exact same choice, offering the exact same excuse. But this time, I wouldn't beg. This time, I was alive, miraculously saved by my brave friend, Maya. And this time, I was done. Dead bodies don' t get a second chance at revenge-but I did.

I poured my life, my inheritance, and my soul into Redwood Creek Brewery. As a gesture of love and trust, I made Olivia, my fiancée of seven years, CEO, gifting her 51% of the shares. Or so I thought. Then the news hit: Olivia was pregnant. With Mark' s baby. Mark, her college ex, who I'd just hired as COO. Suddenly, my fiancée was marrying my COO, and I was just the guy who made the beer. They turned my office into a humiliating nursery. Olivia demoted me to Mark' s assistant. They gleefully watched as Mark 'accidentally' ruined a crucial hops contract I' d just secured. Olivia's condescending calls about me "keeping the money flowing for them" felt like a constant knife twist. They even used company funds-my company' s funds!-to buy my childhood home, only to trash it immediately. Every humiliation, every snide remark, fueled a cold, silent rage within me. They thought I was shattered, easy to discard. They believed I was just the pathetic founder no one remembered, too weak to fight back. But they had no idea. Absolutely no idea what was coming. For months, I' d held a secret: a notarized share transfer agreement, signed by Olivia herself, making me the 91% owner. They thought it was a formality for a phony loan. I called it their eviction notice. Next Monday, I walked in, not as the loyal Head Brewer, but as the indisputable owner. Their nightmare began.

I hovered, a restless spirit, above the opulent ballroom of the Fairmont Copley Plaza. This grand wedding, shimmering with laughter and clinking champagne flutes, celebrated Ethan Astor and Olivia Miller. It should have been my wedding to Ethan. But I was dead, reduced to a convenient scandal weeks ago, my tragic "overdose" a footnote in their perfect lives. Below, society whispered, calling me "difficult" and "ungrateful," while my adoptive parents, the Millers, who once tossed my few possessions like trash, warmly embraced their "true" daughter. They believed Ethan' s carefully doctored photos and the lies that framed my fall from grace. No one among these glittering guests knew about the Lupus eating me alive, the relentless pain, or the crushing exhaustion that ultimately consumed me. They simply saw Sarah, the troubled heiress, a messy problem conveniently gone. The injustice, the quiet suffering they willfully ignored, burned colder than my ghostly form. Then, during what should have been Ethan' s charming speech, Olivia, the new bride, stood. She held up a small, sleek USB drive, her eyes firm. "I have something to share," she announced, her voice echoing. "A final message. From Sarah." My breath, if I had one, would have hitched. My most private journal, my very words, were about to silence their celebration, with the police already waiting outside.

My parents' murder left me an empty shell, and my fiancée's abandonment poured salt on the wound. I was drowning. Then, at their funeral, a lifeline appeared: my ex-fiancée's sister, Detective Sarah Davis, publicly proposed, vowing to bring their killers to justice. I said yes, desperately clutching onto her promise. Five years passed. The case grew cold. My world crumbled again when I overheard Sarah, my wife, deliberately stonewalling leads. The killer? Michael Vance, my ex's new husband. My blood ran cold as I heard Sarah pledge to do "anything to protect him," revealing a sickening loyalty that twisted my insides. The truth hit me like a physical blow: my marriage was a calculated performance, every comforting word a lie. She wasn't just covering up; she was protecting my parents' killer, actively erasing me from their family's narrative. How could the woman I trusted betray me so utterly for the man who destroyed my life? After she physically attacked me to shield Michael during a Thanksgiving blow-up – publicly choosing him over me – I knew what I had to do. I systematically gathered irrefutable evidence of their conspiracy, faked my own death, and set the wheels of justice in motion from the shadows. Now, 'Ethan Miller' is dead, but the man he was lives to see justice served, on his own terms.

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 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 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 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.

I watched my husband, the most feared Capo in New York, sign away our marriage with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for ordering a hit. The nib of his Montblanc pen scratched against the paper, drowning out the rain hitting the coffee shop window. He didn't bother to read a single word. He thought he was signing routine shipping manifests for the family business. In reality, he was signing the "Dissolution of Union" papers I had hidden beneath the cover sheet. He was too distracted to check. His eyes were glued to his encrypted phone, frantically texting Sofia—the widow, the tragic beauty, the woman who had haunted our marriage for three years. "Done," he grunted, tossing the stack into his armored SUV without even glancing at me. "Business is concluded, Elena. We leave." Moments later, his phone rang with her special emergency tone. His demeanor shifted from cold boss to frantic protector instantly. "Driver, divert. She needs me," he roared. He looked at me with zero affection and ordered, "Get out, Elena. Luca will take you home." He kicked me out of the car into the pouring rain to rush to his mistress, completely unaware he had just legally granted me my freedom. I stood on the curb, shivering but smiling for the first time in years. By the time the Don realizes he just signed his own divorce, I will be a ghost in San Francisco. And he will have nothing left but his shipping logs and his regret.