On the day Tristan Spallone, the head of a mafia family, and I mark our fifth wedding anniversary, the manager of the Spallone family vault calls.

Something that was stored away for a long time has finally come due, and Tristan is to retrieve it. He's so busy that he barely has a moment to breathe, so I go in his place.

What I bring back is an old roll of film. The manager warned me that if it wasn’t developed soon, its age might cause it to be ruined beyond recovery.

But when I have them developed, frame after frame is filled with Winnie Leigh, his first love. Her smile looks so sweet in those pictures that they nearly suffocate me.

What about me, one may ask? I never once appeared on his albums.

The office door slams open. Tristan bursts in, already out of breath. "Anna, is your life really so empty that you have to dig through mine?"

I turn toward him, the man who's usually so composed. I neither question him nor break down.

Instead, I speak slowly. "We're getting a divorce."

Tristan frowns and thrusts the stack of photos into the shredder. He then looks back at me. "They're gone. Do you still want a divorce?"

A bitter smile tugs at my lips. "Yes."

Impatience flickered in Tristan Spallone's eyes. He yanked at his tie, snapped open his cufflinks, treating me not like his wife but like an opponent he had to bring to heel.

His voice was low, heavy with that familiar pressure that always seemed to shrink me. "For a handful of old photos? Anna, don't start with me. I don't have time for this."

"I'm serious," I answered evenly, holding his gaze.

Tristan didn't bother with words any longer. He closed the distance between us in a few quick strides.

Towering over me, he caught my chin and tilted my face up to his. His scent and warmth, the same things that had once unraveled me, now wrapped around me like a snare.

"Alright, sweetheart. You've been wanting to get our wedding photos taken, haven't you? We'll go once I get through these next few days."

It was the same thing again. Every argument, every letdown, always dissolved into that empty promise, as if the words themselves carried a spell strong enough to mend every scar.

Tristan made that promise over and over again, yet not once had he kept it.

I knocked his hand aside and stepped back, forcing space between us.

"No. I don't want anything anymore," I said quietly.

The steady chill in my voice snuffed out the last flicker of warmth in his eyes.

"Anna, my patience has limits. Don't threaten me with a divorce. You won't be able to bear the cost."

Tristan's voice was soft, yet laced with a dangerous edge. He didn't add another word or even spare me another glance. He simply turned on his heel and walked away.

This time, I didn't chase him, didn't clutch at his sleeve, didn't sob and beg him to stay.

I just stood there, staring after him, until his footsteps grew fainter. The sting in my nose began to spread, sharp, hot, and unrelenting.

The photos had only just been developed, and already they lay in shreds. But the face on them was already carved into my memory.

So this was Winnie Leigh. She was beautiful.

I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from breaking into sobs, but the tears spilled anyway, rolling down my hand like beads from a broken necklace.

Time blurred. I couldn't tell how long I sat there, not until my eyes ran dry and the sobs finally stilled.

I sniffled, picked up my phone, and called my best friend, Lily Ludlow. She was a lawyer.

"Lily, help me draft a divorce agreement."

On the other end, she hesitated for a few seconds before speaking, her voice heavy with concern. "A divorce agreement? Anna, are you serious? You love Tristan. Why would you suddenly want to end it?"

"That woman's back. I suppose it's time I stepped aside," I murmured.

The line went still. Then, Lily whispered, "God… She's really back."

I hadn't spoken her name. Lily didn't need me to.

Winnie was Tristan's first love. I had never laid eyes on her, yet her name had sat in my heart like an invisible thorn for five long years.

That first winter night after Tristan and I were married was bitterly cold, yet he insisted on working late in the study.

I opened the door with a steaming cup of coffee in hand, and there he was, staring down at an old photograph. His fingers brushed over it with a tenderness so raw that it stole the breath from my chest.

At the sound of my footsteps, he shoved the photo deep into a pile of books, his face gone cold. "What are you doing here?"

I stopped dead in my tracks, my hands shaking. "Who is she?"

He held his silence for what felt like forever, as though torn between hiding and confessing. At last, he said in a low, detached voice, "Winnie Leigh."

That had been the first time I heard the name, and it became the nightmare I would never escape.

From then on, no matter how soft his words or how kind his gestures, the image of him staring at that photo in the study lingered in my mind. It held a tenderness he'd never once shown me.

Lily asked nothing more. In a careful voice, she promised to prepare the divorce agreement for me.

When I ended the call, I drew in a long breath. This time, I wouldn't foolishly wait for Tristan to open his heart to me.

By the time I left the office, I felt hollowed out, as if every bit of strength had been drained from me.

When I passed the Spallone clubhouse, grief pressed down on me like a heavy weight.

After days of barely eating, my low blood sugar level sent the world spinning. My vision blurred to black, and I caught myself against the wall by the entrance, barely managing to stay upright.

Just then, a black Bentley I knew too well eased to a stop at the door. Behind the wheel was Tristan. In the passenger seat sat Winnie, her makeup flawless.

Tristan's gaze flicked past me, not stopping for even a beat, as if I were just some random stranger. He yanked the car door open and strode straight into the clubhouse.

I had no idea how much time had passed. Cold sweat was pouring down my face, and I was about to pass out when the clubhouse doors finally swung open again.

Tristan walked out with two bottles of whiskey dangling from his hand. The instant he saw me still standing there with my head down, his brow tightened.

"Come on. Isn't a ride what you were after?"

"I didn't want that," I whispered.

He brushed off my words, caught my wrist, and shoved me into the backseat of his car.

"Faking illness now? That's your new trick to bother me? Anna, if you want a ride, call the driver. Don't stand in my way. I don't have time for this."

He used to always bring me coffee. Out of pure habit, he passed me one of the bottles of whiskey in his hand. I never touched alcohol, so I left it alone. Seeing this, he set it down without a second glance.

A heavy silence settled in the car.

Winnie suddenly turned from her seat in front, flashing me a courteous smile. "You must be Anna Jovine, huh? Tristan talks about you all the time. I should thank you for looking after him these past few years."

Her voice carried a thin layer of arrogance, the way a hostess might thank a maid for her service.

Before I could even catch my breath from the sting of it, Winnie laid a hand on her stomach and said, "Tristan, my period just started. My cramps are killing me."

Tristan quickly pulled out some painkillers and a heat patch, pressing them into her hand. "Here. Take these, and put this on your stomach."

Winnie smiled. "You've always been the one who looked out for me. I still remember that time we were on business in Sirelia. My period started in the middle of a snowstorm. It was freezing outside, and you kept my stomach warm."

Tristan answered instantly, as if it were the most natural thing. "That's just what a gentleman does."

I curled into the far corner of the backseat, small and out of place. I kept still, listening as they traded stories that belonged only to them—from a snowy night in Sirelia to the sunrise over Mount Astrelle.

I wasn't part of any of it.

Streetlights streamed past the window, one after another, like splashes of whiskey. My eyes drifted to the two bottles Tristan had set on the seat.

Our first date had been in a whiskey bar. I remembered him ordering the fiercest malt they had, sliding the glass toward me with a single push, his gaze shadowed and intense.

"Drink it, and I'll marry you."

I wasn't a drinker. But that night, I threw the alcohol back in one reckless swallow, not knowing what possessed me. The whiskey seared my throat raw, and my heart went wild in my chest.

The rest of that night blurred into a drunken stupor.

What I never forgot was waking the next morning in Tristan's strong embrace, a ring shining on my finger. Tears of joy spilled down my face as I thought myself the happiest woman alive.

It wasn't until much later that I learned of Tristan's greatest regret—that he'd never handed that glass of whiskey to Winnie.

A bitter smile crossed my lips. Now, at last, maybe he could.

Memories surged up in relentless waves, and a bone-deep weariness dragged me under. I sank into a troubled, uneasy sleep.

When I opened my eyes again, the car was already sitting in the villa's garage. Winnie was gone. She must've slipped out without me noticing.

Tristan was turned toward me, his brow furrowed deep. His voice was low as he said, "Anna, did you really have to pull a stunt like that just to catch my attention? If you wanted a ride back, all you had to do was say so.

"Why put on that fainting act at the clubhouse entrance?"

His tone was sharp and laced with impatience. I couldn't quite tell what had him so wound up. Perhaps he was just angry that I'd cut into his stolen moments with Winnie.

"Tristan, you've got it all wrong. I never wanted you to bring me back."

He snorted, as though my denial was nothing but stubborn pride. "Oh, really? And were you planning to crawl home in that state?"

I met his gaze without flinching. "I can take a cab. Tristan, I'm not useless without you. I went along with everything before because I loved you, but that doesn't mean I can't survive if I leave you."

He stared at me like I'd just told the funniest joke he'd ever heard, the derision in his eyes only sharpening. "Leave me? Anna, by all means, try. Then we'll see who ends up regretting it—you or me."

I didn't bother to argue further. Once he saw the divorce agreement, he'd realize I was serious this time.

My knees gave out as I stepped out of the car. I could barely stay on my feet, let alone walk.

Only then did Tristan seem to grasp that I wasn't faking anything. Wordlessly, he scooped me up, carried me into the bedroom, and laid me down with care.

The dizziness and weakness I felt clung to me stubbornly. Eyes shut, I didn't even have the strength to lift a finger.

Tristan pressed a glass of glucose water to my lips, and in that imperious tone I'd long since grown used to, commanded, "Drink."

I drained the glass of glucose water without a word.

That was Tristan's modus operandi. He'd let me down, then throw me a scrap of affection as if it made up for everything. The endless whiplash between cold and warmth had left me lost in doubt for five long years.

Did he ever truly care about me? Chasing the answer to that question was pathetic, and I'd wasted five years doing it. It was time to wake up.

I couldn't be bothered to figure out what was going through his mind. I murmured, "Thanks."

Tristan stayed put at the foot of the bed, staring down at me. "Aren't you going to ask me anything?"

I shook my head calmly.

He seemed a little put out by my reaction, and, unusually for him, actually started to explain himself. "It's not what you think. Winnie's just here because our family business is in trouble, and we need her—"

I cut him short. "As she should."

Tristan's eyes searched my face, as if he might catch the smallest crack in my composure, but there was nothing for him to find.

"Anna, it's just work between us now."

I nodded. "I know."

He went quiet, leaned down, and wrapped me in his arms. He then tried to kiss me.

He thought a kiss would smooth everything over like it always had. But this time, I turned my face away.

Blindsided by my refusal, Tristan stopped short, his face hardening in an instant. "Anna, I'm running out of patience. Don't push me."

I refused to meet his eyes.

That night, we slept in separate rooms. He let me have the master bedroom and took the guest room instead.

…

By the time I woke the next morning, Tristan was already gone.

I'd already made up my mind to leave, and I wanted to make a clean break. Thus, I went straight to the administration office and handed in my resignation.

Ben Fulton, the man in charge, gaped at the letter. "Madre Anna, what are you doing? Don Spallone only reassigned you. He never told you to quit."

I froze. "Reassigned?"

Ben stumbled over his words. "A few days ago, you touched something in the family vault without his permission. He was furious and fired the old vault keeper.

"But with the family short on people and no one else to fill the spot, he temporarily made you the one guarding the vault."

A chill cut straight through me. Again, it was because of that damn roll of film.

Because of Winnie's film, I was being shoved off to guard the vault—the most thankless post in the entire organization.

I forced down the storm tearing through me and asked, "So who's taking my place as head of intelligence?"

Ben's voice dropped to a whisper. "Winnie."

My legs almost gave out, and I caught myself with a palm to the wall. Even if I was already set on leaving, hearing that still struck me like a blade to the gut.

Tristan had never once given me any special treatment in the Spallone family. I had clawed my way up to head of intelligence on my own. And yet, with one word, he handed the position over to Winnie.