Willow POV
I set my phone face down on the nightstand, the blank screen a mirror I could no longer bear to look at.
I stood up from the bed, my hands moving on their own to smooth the wrinkles from my silk nightgown.
I moved past him without making eye contact, feeling the pressure of his gaze tracking my every movement.
The dining room was so quiet that the scrape of a fork against porcelain sounded like a shriek, the pale morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse.
Zane had already prepared breakfast.
A glass of warm milk stood at my place setting, alongside a plate of precisely toasted bread.
It was a startlingly domestic act from a man who commanded an army of lethal men.
I sat down, my stomach a knot of cold dread.
Zane took the seat opposite me without a sound.
His hand reached across the table with a silver butter knife, and he wordlessly cut the crusts off my toast.
He placed the severed crusts onto his own plate with a practiced economy of motion.
It was a habit he had developed early in our marriage—a blind assumption he had made about my preferences.
The fact was, I actually hated the soft center of the bread, but I had never possessed the courage to correct the Don.
I watched his large, scarred hands move with a surgeon's precision.
My mind flashed to the sharp-edged whispers I used to hear when we were young.
People used to say Zane would scour the city at dawn just to bring Scarlett dozens of extravagant breakfast options, indulging her every demanding whim.
He never assumed what she wanted.
He simply gave her everything.
Zane stopped moving.
His dark eyes narrowed as he regarded my untouched plate.
"Why aren't you eating?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that was not a question but a command.
I swallowed hard, my hands trembling where they lay hidden in my lap.
"Did you take on Scarlett's extraction and divorce case?" I asked.
My voice shook, but I forced the words out into the open air before my resolve could fail me.
Zane fell completely silent.
The air in the room grew thick, heavy, pressing down on my chest.
Two heavy seconds passed, feeling like an unbearable eternity.
"Yes," he finally said.
He picked up his coffee cup, and as he did, his jaw tightened, the muscle along his cheekbone knotting up as if to lock all expression away.
"It is merely a favor for an old acquaintance."
His tone was dismissive, but the word acquaintance felt like a deliberate lie.
The deep ties between them ran so much deeper than business.
I could not bear to hear another word.
I abruptly stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the polished hardwood floor.
"I am going to be late for work," I said, turning away before he could see the tears welling in my eyes.
I spent my entire shift at my civilian office job in a state of profound detachment.
I filed paperwork and answered emails, functioning purely on some numb, mechanical autopilot.
Every time my phone screen lit up, my stomach dropped, my body tensing to see more leaked photos of them together.
That evening, I was dragged to a compulsory dinner with my oblivious civilian colleagues.
We went to a high-end restaurant downtown—an exclusive establishment secretly owned by the Family.
I sat at the far end of the table, picking at my food while my coworkers laughed and drank merrily around me.
Suddenly, the woman sitting next to me gasped and grabbed my arm, her nails pressing into my skin.
"Oh my god, look over there," she whispered loudly, utterly unaware of the cold that was seizing my veins.
"That is Zane—the terrifying corporate lawyer everyone is always talking about."
Willow POV
My brain stalled for a full second before the message arrived in my limbs. A cramp seized my stomach, and my legs felt as though they had been filled with lead.
I followed the direction of my coworker's pointing finger.
Sitting in a secluded, dimly lit booth across the restaurant was my husband.
And sitting across from him was a woman.
Even from a distance, I recognized the luxurious drape of her cashmere coat and the effortless, glamorous posture.
It was Scarlett.
A hot pressure built in my chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath.
I needed to leave before they saw me.
I pushed my chair back and stood up quickly, keeping my head lowered.
"I'm going to the restroom," I murmured to my colleagues.
I quickened my pace, trying to slip past their section unnoticed.
"Hey, Willow!" my loud colleague called out across the dining room, destroying my attempt at cover.
"Is that the socialite Scarlett with him?"
At the sound of my name, my husband's gaze snapped up and found mine across the expanse of the room.
Zane locked eyes with me instantly, his expression a blank wall.
"Stop right there," he commanded.
His voice was not loud, but it carried an absolute authority that paralyzed my legs.
I stiffly turned around to face them.
Scarlett stood up from the booth.
She wore a perfectly practiced, condescending smile as her eyes raked over me.
Zane remained completely silent, his jaw tightening slightly as he observed the interaction.
He made no attempt to introduce me, nor to acknowledge in any way that I was his wife.
He had erased my existence in a single act of omission.
Scarlett laughed—a light, musical sound that grated against my ears.
"Well, if it isn't Willow," she said, tilting her head.
"I would recognize that silent, invisible girl hiding in the corners anywhere."
She looked me up and down with fake approval.
"You look quite presentable now."
A cold numbness spread through my veins.
I forced a hollow smile onto my face.
"Excuse me, I need to return to my colleagues," I said.
I walked away before either of them could speak another word.
When I got back to my table, my coworkers bombarded me with questions.
"How do you know them?" one asked eagerly.
"Are they having a forbidden underground affair?" another whispered.
I let out a bitter, quiet laugh.
"We are not close," I murmured, staring down at my empty water glass.
I mocked my own pathetic existence in the safety of my mind, and endured the remainder of the meal in a state of rigid quiet.
When dinner finally ended, the maître d' approached our table with a polite bow.
"The gentleman in the corner booth has already covered your bill," he announced.
My colleagues swooned over the terrifying lawyer's generosity.
But I felt sick to my stomach.
Needing a distraction, I stepped out into the cool night air and pulled out my phone.
A new notification from the syndicate chat flashed on my screen.
Scarlett had just posted a picture of two wine glasses on a candlelit table.
Her caption read: "Some deals are best sealed over a drink." I stared at the image until my vision blurred, wondering which deal exactly my husband was sealing—and why it felt like my heart was the collateral.
