phin

. I was no longer a wife fighting for her marriage; I was a strategist planning a war. My ve

ted the

ation" plan was his contingency, a way to protect a valuable asset-me-from the fallout of his s

ro had clasped around my neck on our wedding day, was a symbol of my position. It was heavy with the weight of expectation and fai

s he'd written in the early days, a lock of his hair I'd kept like a fool. I watched the flames cons

me and expensive champagne. He noticed the empty silver f

furrowed not with concern, but with irrita

my voice as smooth and cool as

y his own agenda. He didn't see the coldness in my

performance. A political maneuver to parade his perfect wife before his Capos, to proj

powerful men and their wives. I was a ghost at my own feast, movin

ria ar

l of her new status. She wore a red dress, a vulgar imitation of a couture gown I owned

ful men, but the way his hand rested on the small of her back, posses

my hand, and overheard two of the older, mo

espect his wife, a Vitali, in her own home... it's

te touches a public spectacle. In that moment, I saw the truth with blinding clarity. My marriage, my

was a vow. A promise I made to the ref

I will end him. A