I’ve been in love with the Don of the Moretti family for ten years, and everyone knows he loves me more than life itself.

In seven days, he’s throwing me a massive, grand wedding that will be live-streamed to the entire world.

But I’m the only one who knows the truth: he’s been keeping a mistress behind my back.

He’s kept her for two whole years, and he’s lied to my face for just as long.

I didn't call him out on it. Instead, I planned a fake death.

At our wedding in seven days, he’s going to lose me forever.

"Mrs. Moretti, here is your 'fake death' protocol.

Are you absolutely certain you want to plummet from Soul-Breaker Cliff into the Atlantic, right in front of the cameras during the global wedding broadcast in seven days?"

In the backroom of a Brooklyn speakeasy, I sat across from "The Cleaner"—the underworld’s premier specialist in erasing identities.

"Yes," I replied calmly, my fingertip tracing the cold surface of the liability waiver.

"Once the process begins, the name Elena Moretti ceases to exist.

You’ll lose all protection from the Moretti family. You won’t even have a legal ID to your name."

"I’m certain."

As I stepped out of the bar, the massive LED screens in Times Square were tirelessly looping a proposal montage that had every woman in America swooning.

The man in the video was the current Don of the Moretti family: Dante Moretti.

Dressed in a bespoke suit, those hands—the same ones that had pulled triggers countless times and held the power of life and death over the East Coast—were now trembling slightly as they held a massive pink diamond.

"Elena, you are my weakness and my armor. Marry me, and I’ll give you all of New York as a wedding gift."

Tourists stopped in their tracks, letting out collective gasps of awe.

To them, this was a romantic fairy tale between a mob boss and his childhood sweetheart.

Standing in the shadows, my lips curled into a cold, mocking smirk.

The whole world thought he loved me to the bone, that I was his only vulnerability.

But only I knew that for two whole years, he had been hiding a fragile college student in a private villa out on Long Island.

I opened my phone and tapped into an encrypted cloud album.

Inside lay the evidence I’d intercepted through the family’s intel network.

“Dante, you were such a beast last night, My legs are still sore. If you don’t take me to that new French place, I’m never talking to you again!”

And Dante, the man who was cold-blooded and ruthless at any negotiation table, had replied instantly: “My fault, baby. Picking you up tonight.”

In the photos, those hands that had touched me a thousand times were gripped tightly around the waist of a girl named Sophia.

The look in his eyes—a raw, frantic obsession—was something I hadn't seen in all our ten years together.

"Elena? Didn't I tell you to wait for me at home? New York nights are freezing; what if you catch a cold?"

That familiar, magnetic voice rang out from above me.

Seconds later, a cashmere overcoat—carrying the faint scent of cigars and his body heat—was draped over my shoulders.

Dante had appeared behind me out of nowhere. He knelt down gracefully, his long fingers gently tilting my chin up.

His gaze was still deep enough to drown in, but beneath that affection, I caught a flicker of the guilt that comes from a long-term lie.

He brushed away a stray tear from the corner of my eye with his thumb, his fingertip ghosting over my lips.

"Why the tears? Moved by the proposal video?"

He whispered, leaning into my ear, his warm breath ghosting against my neck.

In that instant, a sharp scent of citrus perfume hit my nostrils.

It was Sophia’s favorite brand—the one she intentionally left on my fiancé’s collar as a provocation every single time.

My stomach churned. I instinctively pulled my shoulder back, dodging his touch.

"It’s nothing... I just feel like this is all a bit too perfect to be real. Like a lie,"I muttered, keeping my head down, my voice raspy.

Dante’s hand froze in mid-air, a flash of panic darting through his eyes.

He suddenly pulled me into a hard embrace, gripping me so tight it felt like he wanted to crush me into his very bones.

"Don't overthink it, Elena. You are the only mistress of the Moretti family, and you always will be."

He kissed the top of my head, his voice thick with remorse.

"Come on, let’s go home. We can't have anything going wrong before the wedding."

Leaning into his cold chest, I smiled silently.

Dante, since you betrayed our blood oath, get ready for the funeral I’ve planned for you.

Early the next morning.

Dante left in a hurry, claiming there was an emergency meeting with "The Commission."

I watched his retreating figure, picked up my phone, and made two calls.

The first was to Manhattan’s largest charitable foundation; the second was to a private jewelry appraisal house on Fifth Avenue.

I stepped into the study and double-locked the door.

Hidden behind a secret panel in the bookshelf was a safe with a code only I knew.

The door swung open, revealing no cash or weapons, but seven pieces of jewelry laid out in perfect order.

Before I married into the Moretti life, I was a jewelry designer.

Over the last decade, I had personally designed every symbolic piece Dante wore.

I had been naive enough to believe that these gems, into which I’d poured my soul, could lock our love together like a blood oath.

Now, every single one of them felt like a stinging slap to the face.

They weren't testaments of love—they were trophies of my own stupidity.

I brought them to the appraisers.

"Mrs. Moretti, these... these are museum-quality one-of-a-kinds."

The old appraiser, peering through his monocle, had hands that were visibly shaking.

"Are you certain you want to liquidate everything?

"You’ve requested that all funds be donated anonymously to the Brooklyn orphanages. This is enough money to buy half a block."

"Sell it all," I said, sitting on the leather sofa, my voice flat and devoid of emotion.

"Keeping a dead man’s belongings only brings bad luck."

Once the paperwork was finalized, I stepped out of the appraisal office, only to run straight into Sophia at the corner of the hallway.

She was decked out in a new white Chanel suit and towering stilettos, her blonde hair shimmering under the lights with a blinding glare.

She wore that nauseating, victor's smirk on her face.

"Well, if it isn't Mrs. Moretti. Oh, wait—the wedding hasn't happened yet. Legally speaking, right now you're just a... high-end nanny, aren't you?"

Sophia blocked my path, intentionally flaunting the ruby bracelet on her wrist.

It was a top-tier Pigeon’s Blood ruby that Dante had snagged at an auction six months ago.

I had practically begged him for it, wanting to use it as the centerpiece for our wedding anniversary gift.

At the time, he’d told me the stone’s "color wasn't good enough; it’s not worthy of you."

"Dante said this ruby makes my skin look so pale and perfect, he insisted I have it.

" Elena, you’ve designed so much jewelry; has Dante ever given you anything decent?"

Sophia leaned in close, dropping her voice to a sharp, venomous whisper.

"Then again, an orphan raised in the slums like you wouldn't know the first thing about being truly cherished.

"You’re just a hound Dante keeps around. He pats your head when you're obedient, but the second you aren't... he'll kick you to the curb."

I looked at her coldly.

Rage was screaming inside me, but my expression only grew more frozen.

"Sophia, for a mistress who’s so proud of her position，

"It seems your street-walking mother in Brooklyn never taught you the meaning of 'shame.'"

"Shame? How much is shame worth compared to the power of the Moretti family?"

Sophia let out a cold laugh and suddenly gave me a violent shove.

"Elena, you’ve held this spot for too long. It’s time to get lost!

"Dante can’t stay away from my body right now. How do you plan to compete with that?"

I braced myself, found my footing, and swung my hand back for a slap.

Crack!

The crisp sound echoed through the empty hallway.

"That," I said, "was to teach you how to shut your mouth."

Sophia clearly hadn't expected the usually submissive Elena to actually throw a punch—or a slap.

She was stunned for a second, then a flash of malice crossed her eyes. She let herself fall toward the marble floor with exaggerated force.

Clutching her stomach, her face turned deathly pale in an instant as she let out a piercing shriek.

"Ah! My stomach... it hurts so much... Dante, help me!!"

Just then, the heavy, hurried thud of leather shoes echoed from the end of the hall.

Dante appeared, his face a mask of pure anxiety.

He charged over. When he caught my icy stare, he visibly stiffened, a flicker of intense guilt and shame crossing his features.

But hearing Sophia’s shrill cries, he gritted his teeth and, without a second thought, shoved me aside.

"Elena, get out of the way!"

He used so much force that I was caught completely off guard, my body slamming back against the wall.

Thud!

It was a heavy, dull sound, followed by the sickening crack of bone hitting a hard surface.

My waist slammed violently against the edge of the club’s solid marble bar.

In that instant, a jagged flash of pain shot through my spine like a dozen steel needles, paralyzing my entire body.

I slid clumsily down the side of the bar, collapsing onto the floor.

One hand clawed at the ground, my fingernails scraping against the marble with a piercing screech.

But the man who had once sworn to take a bullet for me didn't even look back.

Dante was cradling Sophia with a level of care I’d never seen.

His face was a mask of terror and raw anxiety—emotions he had never once shown for me.

"Hang on, Sophia! I’ve got you!"

Dante’s voice was trembling. He rushed toward the exit, his leather shoes thudding frantically against the floor.

Just before reaching the door, he seemed to remember I existed.

He paused for a fraction of a second, but he didn't even turn his head.

"Wait for me to get back and explain this to you, Elena!"

I lay there on the freezing floor, watching his silhouette run for another woman, and let out a low, self-mocking laugh.

When I finally woke up, it was the dead of night.

The private hospital wing of the Moretti family was deserted, save for the monotonous, cold beep of the heart monitor.

The bruise on my waist throbbed with a white-hot pain.

I tried to shift my weight, but the agony made me gasp, and tears started streaming down my face involuntarily.

My phone vibrated on the pillow. It was a video from Sophia.

In the footage, the Moretti family’s private luxury suite was bathed in warm light.

Dante’s mother—the Dowager who had always treated me with such polished respect—was now hovering over Sophia’s bed, fussing over her.

The old woman held Sophia’s hand, her face lit up with a massive smile.

"Good girl, you need to rest for the baby. This is the first grandson of the Moretti family; he carries Dante’s blood.

"As for that Elena... once the wedding broadcast is over, I’ll have Dante announce she’s 'retreating for her health.'

"Then we’ll ship her off to the old house in Sicily and lock her away. She’ll never cross your sight again."

Sophia leaned shyly into Dante’s chest, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Mother, Dante is so good to me."

The camera panned. Dante was sitting by the bed.

His long fingers were toying with a massive, breathtaking sapphire—the Star of the Abyss.

In that moment, I felt my heart stop beating entirely.

Six months ago, in order to help him secure his grip on Eastern Europe, I had infiltrated the black markets of Prague alone.

I was nearly blown to pieces in a hail of gunfire just to retrieve that raw stone.

I had planned to give it to him at the wedding, set into his scepter, as a symbol of "Eternal Protection and Loyalty."

"The color of this stone is top-tier Caucasian blue."

Dante stroked the blue diamond gently, but his eyes looked hollow, as if he were looking through the gem at someone else.

He whispered to Sophia, "I’ll have them turn it into a necklace. A baptism gift for the baby."

I shut the video off and hurled my phone against the wall with everything I had.

But what he didn't know was that I had already carved a tiny, hidden groove into the base of that blue diamond.

Dante Moretti, you knew exactly what that stone meant to me.

You knew I almost died in the snow of a foreign land to get it for you.

And yet, just to soothe your mistress and bury your cheap guilt, you gave it away like it was nothing.

Fine.

On the wedding day, I’ll give you exactly what you want. I'll give you your "happily ever after."