I was engaged to Silas, Don of the Vance Famiglia, yet in the annual family portrait, I was shoved into the back corner.

Standing right beside him was Camilla, his most trusted Capo.

He sighed impatiently. "We have plenty of photos together, Scarlett. Missing one won't kill you. You're the future Donna. Stop being so petty."

I swallowed my pride and gave up my spot.

But my compromise bought me nothing.

The necklace meant for me ended up around Camilla's neck. His plus-one to galas became Camilla.

His excuse was always the same: "She's a vital part of the syndicate. You shouldn't compete with her."

So, I gave him exactly what he wanted. I stopped being petty.

I shredded the wedding planner I had poured my heart into, trashed our photos, and left New York for good.

And suddenly, the cold, calculating Don was tearing the city apart looking for me.

Tonight was the Vance family's annual portrait.

But in the brief moment I glanced down to fix my dress, Camilla had already stolen the spot right beside Silas—a place reserved strictly for the Don's wife in Vance history.

No one in the room seemed to think it was out of line.

A few Elders even chuckled. "You can really see the chemistry when Camilla stands next to the boss."

I stared at them, humiliated. Camilla wore a striking red dress, the Browning pistol Silas had personally gifted her tucked into her waistband. She whispered excitedly to him.

Silas caught my eye, but only said, "Scarlett, just stand in the back row today."

"Silas," I said, keeping my voice steady. "That's not how things work."

He frowned. "Camilla's already settled. Don't make a scene. We have enough pictures of just the two of us. Missing one won't hurt."

"Don Silas," Camilla chimed in, putting on a slightly hurt expression. "Scarlett seems upset. Let me step back. I really don't mind where I stand."

Yet her feet didn't move an inch.

Silas placed a hand on her bare shoulder. "Your gunshot wound hasn't fully healed. Stay put."

He turned to me, a warning in his eyes. "Scarlett. Be a good girl."

I just looked at him.

Four years ago, on the day of our engagement, he held my hand, walked me to this exact spot, and declared to the Elders: Scarlett is my chosen wife, the future Donna of the Vance Famiglia. No one disrespects her.

Four years later, he was telling me to step aside.

"...Fine."

I grabbed the hem of my dress and retreated to the very last row, taking the corner spot.

Once the photos were done, the crowd dispersed. Camilla seamlessly looped her arm through Silas's.

"Don Silas, I heard a new seafood place opened in Midtown. They poached a chef from Hokkaido. Let's go celebrate tonight!"

Silas took his black coat from an underboss, gave a casual nod, and turned to me.

"Scarlett, come with us."

"I'm allergic to seafood," I reminded him.

Silas froze for a second.

He remembered. I saw a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

Five years ago, when we first started dating, I accidentally ate a piece of bread dipped in shrimp oil. My throat closed up instantly, and my face went red. Silas ran three red lights getting me to the ER, then stayed by my bed for three days, his eyes bloodshot.

When I was discharged, he put sticky notes everywhere—his study, his phone lock screen, the car dashboard: Don't let Scarlett touch any seafood.

He remembered my allergy. Yet, all he said was, "I'll have the kitchen make you a steak. Come on, don't be a buzzkill tonight."

His hand rested on my shoulder, his eyes as gentle as always, but I felt like I was suffocating.

Camilla lowered her head on his other side, looking torn. "Don Silas, let's just pick another place. I don't want Scarlett to be sad..."

"We're not changing places," Silas said, his voice dropping. "My future Donna isn't that petty."

He looked down at me, waiting for my answer.

The crystal chandelier at the end of the hall blurred in my stinging eyes.

"...Fine," I heard myself say. "I'll go with you."

The restaurant was on the top floor in Midtown, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

I was seated on Silas's right; Camilla on his left.

They leaned in close, speaking in hushed tones about a turf war at the Westside docks. No one could interrupt them.

My stomach was already cramping from eating nothing all day, but looking at the endless plates of seafood in front of me, I couldn't take a single bite.

Silas expertly peeled a large shrimp and placed it on Camilla's plate.

"Your shoulder is hurt. It's hard with one hand," he explained without looking up, as if justifying it to me.

Camilla smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Don Silas."

Sitting across from us, Marco, his Underboss, raised his glass at me and teased, "Why isn't the future Donna drinking tonight? You're usually the best at keeping the Don company."

"My stomach hurts," I said softly. "I'm passing on the drinks."

Silas let out a low chuckle, turning to me. His tone was intimate but laced with blame. "Is your stomach actually hurting, or are you just throwing a tantrum again?"

The whole table laughed.

Camilla kept her head down, a faint smirk on her lips.

My grip tightened around my water glass.

The only reason I could drink back then was because I took bullet after bullet for him at social events, downing glasses meant for him. That was how I ruined my stomach.

Just last week, the doctor warned me that one more shot of hard liquor could rupture my stomach lining.

The emotions I had swallowed all night finally boiled over.

"Silas. Do you even remember what Dr. Hayes told me last week?"

He paused, frowning. "What did he say?"

He really forgot.

I forced a hollow smile and pushed my chair back. "Enjoy your meal."

I pushed open the private room doors and walked out.

The moment I reached the ground floor, I couldn't hold back the violent nausea anymore. I threw up.

Nothing but stomach acid, streaked with blood.

I dragged myself back to the penthouse I shared with Silas, dug out my stomach pills, and dry-swallowed them.

A bitter taste coated my throat.

At 1 AM, the penthouse door clicked open.

Silas walked in smelling of alcohol, his tie hanging loosely around his neck.

He paused when he saw me sitting in the dark, pale as a ghost.

"You're still awake?"

He walked over, sat next to me, and pulled me into his arms like he always did.

I could smell Camilla's perfume on him.

"Scarlett," he murmured. "I know things were rough for you today. I'm sorry. But I didn't forget—tomorrow is our four-year engagement anniversary. I've rented a yacht. Just the two of us."

My stupid heart softened. I thought he had forgotten.

"...Okay."

He kissed my forehead gently and smiled. "Good girl."

The next morning, Silas left early. I spent the entire afternoon getting ready, excited for the boat trip.

I thought maybe he’d prepared the irises I loved, or that ring I had been eyeing for ages...

I even hired a makeup artist. She looked at me in the mirror and sighed, "The boss is going to be speechless tonight."

I waited until 8 PM. The sky went completely dark.

Silas finally called. The background noise was chaotic, his voice rushed. "Scarlett, Camilla got ambushed at the docks. They're heavily outnumbered. I have to go."

I gripped my phone, saying nothing.

"Go to sleep early," he added, not waiting for my reply. "I'll make up the anniversary to you some other time."

He hung up.

I sat in front of the mirror in my silver-gray dress, diamond earrings, and perfectly styled hair.

God, what an absolute idiot.

I laughed bitterly at myself and began stripping off the jewelry, piece by piece.

That was when I noticed a stack of documents on Silas's desk.

At the bottom right corner of every single page were two signatures: Silas Vance and Camilla Rossi.

Side by side. Perfectly aligned. Like husband and wife.

And buried at the very bottom of the pile, utterly ignored, was the wedding binder I had spent three sleepless nights designing.

There was no need for him to open it anyway. Because I wasn't going to marry him.

I tore the wedding binder apart, page by page, and threw it in the trash.

Late that night, Silas finally came home, buzzing with adrenaline.

"Scarlett, that was way too close. Thank God Camilla's fine, and we got the shipment back."

He walked toward me, leaning in to kiss my cheek, acting as if everything was perfectly normal.

I sat on the couch, looking down at my phone. I was busy wiring the funds from my New York accounts to overseas banks.

"Congratulations," I said, dodging his kiss. My voice was deadpan.

Silas stopped. His eyes drifted to the trash can, catching a glimpse of the shredded pages with the word Wedding on them.

His expression darkened.

"Scarlett," he said coldly. "Is this how you show you're upset? Are you seriously pitching a fit over this?"

I looked up at him. "Over what?"

"I had to leave for the Famiglia!" his voice rose. "And this is how you throw a tantrum? The silent treatment? Ripping up the wedding plans just so I can see?"

A dry laugh escaped my lips.

It made him frown harder.

"Silas," I looked him dead in the eye. "I'm not throwing a tantrum. I really meant congratulations."

He froze. Then, a wave of offended anger washed over his face.

"Fine," he sneered. "Since you don't care, we're not making up for the anniversary either."

The study door slammed shut behind him.

I brushed off his anger and focused back on my phone. There was an encrypted email.

Sender: Julian Greycastle.

The Don of the Greycastle Famiglia in Chicago.

We had met at an auction a month ago, and he made no secret of his interest in me. I rejected him without a second thought back then.

Now, I typed my reply: I accept your offer. I land in Chicago in five days.

For the next three days, Silas left early and came home late.

We lived under the same roof like strangers. I stopped following him around, stopped asking where he was going, stopped reminding him to eat.

I was busy packing. Not seeing him actually felt like a relief—at least I didn't have to hide it.

Early on the fourth morning, I got a call from Dario, Silas's bodyguard.

"Donna," he sounded frantic. "The boss's migraine is acting up. He smashed half the room and won't listen to anyone. He's out of his meds, could you please..."

I looked at the silver pillbox on the table. It was a custom prescription I had hunted down from countless doctors just for him.

"Last time," I sighed to myself.

I grabbed the pills and drove to the Vance estate.

At the end of the hall, the bedroom door was slightly ajar. I heard voices and instinctively stopped.

"...This color suits you perfectly." It was Silas's gentle voice.

I peeked through the crack.

Camilla was standing in front of a mirror, an emerald necklace draped over her collarbones.

It was the necklace Silas had won at a European auction last month. He had texted me a picture back then: Early anniversary gift. Do you like it?

I had loved it so much my heart felt like it would burst.

Now, it was on another woman's neck.

"But Don Silas," Camilla bit her lip, looking worried. "Will Scarlett be mad? She's been so moody lately..."

Silas sat on the couch, looking pale, but his eyes were dripping with affection.

"Your position in the Famiglia is different now," he murmured. "You're going to attend a lot of events for me. You need decent jewelry to hold your own. Scarlett is the future Donna; she won't hold a grudge over a piece of jewelry. I'll just buy her another one."

Standing outside the door, it felt like a knife was twisting slowly in my chest.

My spot in the photo... my necklace... he could give it all away so easily.

It hit me with crushing clarity just how little I meant to him.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Camilla whipped around. Her hand jerked, knocking over the white porcelain mug on the nightstand.

A sharp crash echoed. The porcelain shattered into pieces.

I made that mug for him two years ago. Carved on the bottom were the words: For S. Forever.