The CEO's Billion-Dollar Divorce Regret

My husband, a mafia underboss and a brilliant neurosurgeon, left me to die on the side of a highway in the pouring rain. He had to rush to another woman, his true love, who'd had a minor car accident.

As I lay bleeding on a gurney after being hit by a truck, I learned I was eight weeks pregnant. But my hope was short-lived. The hospital was out of my blood type, and the only reserve had been set aside by my husband for his lover, just in case she had "post-op complications" from her cosmetic procedure.

Over the phone, I heard the nurse beg him. "This woman, and your... this baby will die!"

His reply was ice. "Isabella is my priority."

He let our child die to save her from a minor risk. The ledger where I'd been keeping score of his sins finally hit zero. I was free.

Two years later, I've built a new life, a new career, and found a new love with a man who cherishes me. I'm no longer the broken wife, but a celebrated architect, nominated for a prestigious award.

And tonight, at the awards ceremony, he found me. He got on his knees in the middle of the ballroom, begging for a second chance.

Chapter 1

Seraphina POV:

The day I started keeping score of my husband's sins was the day I realized my marriage was a contract, and my heart was the only asset I hadn't signed away.

It was hidden in the back of our shared walk-in closet, a space larger than my first apartment. Tucked behind a pair of winter boots I'd never worn in Boston, the black leather ledger was plain, severe, and utterly out of place among the silks and jewels that defined my life as Seraphina Rossi, wife to the Santos Underboss.

Dante was looking for his grandfather's cufflinks, the ones carved from old-world silver with the family crest. He moved through the rows of his tailored suits with the same lethal grace he used to command a room, his presence a low hum of power that vibrated through the floorboards.

His hands-the hands of a neurosurgeon, the hands that could kill a man as easily as they could save one-brushed past my things without a second glance.

Then he stopped.

He saw the box. It wasn't designer. It wasn't flashy. It was just a simple black box. His curiosity, a rare thing when directed at me, was piqued. He pulled it down, his movements economical and precise, and opened it.

The ledger sat inside.

He picked it up, his thumb tracing the unadorned cover. He opened it to the first page. My handwriting, the elegant script my mother had taught me, filled the space.

The Sinner's Ledger.

A flicker of something-amusement? annoyance?-crossed his face. He read the rules I'd written below the title.

Starting Score: 100.

Each act of dishonor, each betrayal, subtracts from the score.

When it hits zero, I am free.

He scoffed, the sound low and dismissive in the quiet of the closet. "A bored wife's game," he murmured, the words meant for himself, but I heard them from the doorway where I stood, unseen.

He flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the entries. Each one was a small, neat cut.

-5 points: He forgot our anniversary. The date that sealed the pact between the Rossi and Santos families.

-3 points: He canceled our trip to Italy because Isabella called.

-7 points: He called me Isabella's name when he was weak from a fever.

-2 points: He gave the vintage wine, a gift meant for the Don of the Ricci family, to Isabella because she said she liked the bottle.

I watched his jaw tighten, but it wasn't with guilt. It was with irritation. To him, this wasn't a record of his betrayals. It was a testament to my obsession with Isabella Whitfield, the woman he'd loved before me, the woman he still loved. The ghost that haunted our gilded cage.

He remembered her, I knew. He remembered the heartbreak when she'd left him years ago, before our families decided an alliance was necessary. He remembered choosing me, Seraphina Rossi, the architect with a quiet demeanor and a respectable bloodline, as the perfect, placid solution. A beautiful piece of furniture to stabilize the Underboss.

With a final, cold glance, he tossed the ledger back into its box, shoving it back onto the shelf with careless indifference. He found the cufflinks, slid them into his cuffs, and turned to leave.

He finally saw me then. I was in the living room just outside the closet, my sketchbook open on my lap. A stupid, stubborn flicker of hope ignited in my eyes. It had been years since he'd truly noticed it.

"I'm going out," he said, his voice flat. He adjusted his watch. "Isabella's gallery is having its opening tonight."

I felt it die. Snuffed out like a candle, leaving only smoke and darkness behind.

His gaze dropped to my sketchbook. On the page was a detailed drawing of a nursery, with tiny stars painted on the ceiling and a crib carved with gentle waves. A strange, unreadable expression flickered across his features for a split second. A pang I couldn't decipher.

Then his phone buzzed. It was his trusted Capo, Marco.

"Boss," Marco's voice was urgent, crackling through the phone. "There's a fire. Isabella's gallery. The Rinaldis are claiming responsibility."

The blood drained from Dante's face. The cool, controlled Underboss vanished, and in his place stood a man consumed by a singular terror. He grabbed his keys and coat, his movements sharp and frantic. He bolted past me, not a word, not a glance in my direction.

I followed him. I don't know why. Maybe I needed to see it for myself.

The gallery was a vision from hell, flames licking the night sky. I saw Dante at the police line, arguing with firefighters, his voice a raw roar of desperation. He was trying to charge into the inferno.

"My hands are insured for ten million dollars," he screamed at a fire captain trying to restrain him, his voice cracking with a panic I had never heard before. "I'm a surgeon. My entire future is in these hands, and I would let them burn to ash to make sure she is safe. Do you understand me? Let me go!"

My heart stopped. It just... stopped.

Nearby, I overheard Marco talking to another Soldato. "He's been like this since they were kids," the soldier said. "Obsessed. She's the only thing that can make him lose control."

I was just an obstacle. A placeholder. A duty.

The ledger was my lifeline. It was the only thing that was truly mine. Watching him, a man willing to burn for another woman, I knew the score had just plummeted.

He broke through the line. He ran into the smoke.

Moments later, he emerged, carrying Isabella in his arms. She was coughing, her face buried in his chest. He whispered to her-reassurances, promises-his voice thick with a tenderness he had never once shown me. He never looked my way.

He got her to the paramedics, made sure she was breathing, that she was safe.

Only then, when his duty to her was done, did Dante Santos collapse from the smoke.