I spent five years as Dominic Santoro’s wife in name only.

Five years hidden behind closed doors, buried under his sheets, erased from his world.

When he finally agreed to take me back to Chicago—to stand beside him, to be seen—I thought I had won.

I bought a new dress.

Soft. Elegant. Worthy of a Don’s woman.

The night before we left, he looked at me through the mirror and said calmly,

“Take the makeup off. Change into pants.”

I asked why.

He adjusted his cufflinks like I was nothing more than background noise.

“Juliana Lancaster is back. Tonight is our engagement.”

Russian Bratva. Lancaster blood. A marriage alliance.

Seeing my silence, he laughed—careless, cruel.

“What’s with that look? Didn’t we agree on this when we married? Brotherhood. Loyalty. No love.”

Then he turned, eyes sharp and mocking.

“Victoria Miller… you didn’t actually fall in love with me, did you?”

I stood there, frozen.

Because inside the inner pocket of his tailored suit—

was my pregnancy report.

And the Don of Chicago had no idea the woman he was about to sacrifice was carrying his heir.

I was Don Dominic Santoro’s wife for five years.

At least, that’s what the contract said.

In reality, I was his shadow, his fixer, his favorite weapon—and the woman he came to when the night got too quiet.

An hour ago, he had me pinned against the vanity, my dress half-unzipped, his breath warm against my neck.

“You’re tense,” he murmured, fingers working the zipper down my spine. “Relax.”

I did.

The mirror caught everything—the way his suit jacket had already been tossed aside, the way his hands knew my body better than my own, the way I melted for him despite myself.

“Lighter,” I whispered as he moved closer, the sudden his penis entered my body stealing my breath and making my body arch toward his instinctively.

Our heated bodies pressed together, skin against skin, until there was no space left between us.

In the mirror, the sight of him lowering his head, his lips tracing a reverent path over my chest, pulled me under completely, a soft sound escaping me before I could stop it.

When it was over, his fingers traced the tattoo on my chest, slow and deliberate.

Then, his next words shattered the fragile warmth.

“Take the makeup off. Change into pants.”

My hand froze mid-motion. The lipstick on my mouth smeared crookedly, turning my reflection into something ridiculous.

I turned. “Why?”

He faced the mirror, adjusting his tie with meticulous care.

“Juliana Lancaster is back in the country. Tonight is our meeting.”

The name slid under my skin like ice.

Lancaster. Russian Bratva royalty.

“You being dressed like this,” he added, tone indifferent, “would send the wrong message.”

I didn’t speak.

He glanced at me, amused.

“What’s that look for? Didn’t we agree on this when we married?”

He leaned closer, eyes sharp, voice almost mocking.

“Brotherhood. Loyalty. No romance.”

Then, with a soft laugh:

“Victoria Miller… you didn’t actually fall in love with me, did you?”

“Of course not,” I said, forcing the words out smoothly, forcing dignity into my voice. “I know my place. I’ve always known what this was. You don’t have to worry.”

The mirror reflected a woman with ruined lipstick and empty eyes.

“Then what were these five years?” I asked.

He wiped my mouth with his thumb, rough, careless.

“Mutual help between brothers,” he said. “You benefited. I benefited.”

he added lightly. “We were clear from the start. When we signed the papers, it was agreed—no feelings. Just an arrangement. Each taking what we wanted.”

I let out a soft, bitter laugh.

My chin lifted slightly, pride stitched together with stubbornness, refusing to crack in front of him.

My gaze dropped to the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

That was where I’d hidden the folded report.

I was supposed to give it to him tonight.

A child—good news at once.

His words came down like a blade, cutting everything in half.

He picked up a thin folder from the table and tossed it onto the bed.

“Sign it,” he said. “Divorce agreement.”

I looked at him.

“I’m marrying Juliana Lancaster,” Dominic continued, already bored.

“For the alliance. For the family.”

I smiled. Weak.

“I understand.”

As I stepped closer to straighten his jacket, my fingers slipped into his pocket and closed around the folded paper.

The sharp edges dug into my palm, grounding me.

This child was never born of love.Neither was I.

I signed the agreement.

When I turned to leave, his voice followed me, calm, familiar, almost amused.

“Victoria, don’t look at me like that,” he said lightly. “As if you’re wounded. As if I’m some faithless bastard.”

A brief pause.

“We were clear from the beginning. There were never any feelings between us.”

A tear slipped down anyway, traitorous, burning as it fell—but I wiped it away and turned back to him with a smile that held.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. “I’m not heartbroken. I just think you were a little… underwhelming in bed tonight.”

The words landed clean and sharp.

Before he could respond, I turned and walked out, my heels striking the floor with purpose as I took the stairs two at a time.

By the time I reached the lower hall, my phone was already in my hand.

I sent a single message.

Prepare a new set of identification.

I’m leaving in three days.

And this time, I didn’t look back.

Half an hour later, we returned to the Santoro estate we once shared.

For years, I had believed that being brought into the family grounds meant recognition—that one day, I would stand here openly, not as a shadow or a tool, but as the acknowledged woman of this house. I had mistaken proximity for belonging, and silence for consent.

I was wrong.

Today, the Santoro estate had never been this alive.

The engagement banquet drew in the entire city—every major crime family, political intermediaries who spoke in riddles, union bosses with blood on their ledgers, and men whose names never appeared on paper but decided the fate of those who did.

Crystal chandeliers burned overhead, throwing light across marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, while the air itself felt heavy, saturated with expensive perfume, practiced smiles, and the unspoken pressure of loaded guns resting beneath perfectly tailored suits.

It was only when I was led away from the crowd, back into the private wing of the estate, that I understood what that grandeur had cost me.

The lockboxes, the coded drawers, the weapons hidden behind false panels—gone.

The single framed photo Dominic once allowed me to keep—gone.

In their place were pale silk curtains, gilded mirrors, crystal vases filled with lilies of the valley.

Soft rugs. Delicate furniture. White and gold everywhere.

Nothing of me remained.

So that was why, a month ago, he’d told me to move out.

Not because it was inconvenient.

Because he was erasing me.

Dominic’s voice came from behind.“Allow me to make the introductions.”

I turned.

He stood there in a custom Brioni suit, flawless as ever.

Juliana Lancaster clung to his arm—blonde hair, blue eyes, dressed like something holy and untouchable.

“Juliana,” Dominic said calmly, “this is Victoria Miller.”

Juliana tilted her head, eyes lighting up with sudden familiarity.

“So it’s really you,” she said with a soft laugh. “I knew you.”

She stepped closer, studying me openly.

“Back when we were in school,” she continued with a light laugh, “you were always trailing after Dominic.”

She tilted her head, feigning nostalgia.

“People used to joke that no matter how fast he walked, you were always right there—like something that just wouldn’t shake loose.”

Her words sounded casual. Almost fond.

They landed like a slap.

Every gaze in the room snapped toward me.

Cold crawled up my spine.

Dominic looked over as well, brows knitting slightly—then he smiled.

“Victoria’s my a confidante,” he said easily.

Juliana’s eyes swept over my pale face, full of mock admiration.

“I’m really jealous,” she said sweetly. “Being able to get along with men so well, turning them into real brothers.”

She sighed.

“Unlike me. Growing up, I could only be friends with girls. The moment I got close to a man, people would call me… unfeminine.”

The room fell dead silent.

The last bit of color drained from my face.

I dug my nails into my palm, forcing myself not to react to the scrutiny pressing in from all sides.

Then Dominic spoke again, his voice unhurried—but there was a faint edge to it now, a deliberate sharpness, as if he were cutting something cleanly away.

“She’s not just a confidante,” he added. “She’s also the family’s cleaner.”

A clarification offered not because it was necessary—but because he was eager to draw a line, to make sure there would be no room left for misunderstanding in front of Juliana.

He turned to her immediately, not sparing me another glance.

“Darling, let me introduce you to the family,” he said.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and led her toward the main hall, his posture open and unmistakably protective, as though her place at his side had always been natural, unquestioned—while mine had just been formally erased.

I followed a step behind them.

The elders were already seated.

At Dominic, hesitating—

but before he could speak, Juliana smiled and said first:

“I’ve seen Victoria by Dominic’s side for so many years. I honestly thought…”

She paused, perfectly timed.

“…that the two of you might end up together.”

Dominic’s expression didn’t change.“We won’t,” he said flatly.

“She’s only my confidante—and my subordinate.”

He looked at me then, eyes sharp.

“And besides,” he added casually, “Victoria already has a fiancé.”

The word echoed.

“She’ll be getting married soon.”

Every gaze returned to me.I lowered my head slightly and smiled.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s right.”

For a fraction of a second, Dominic cast me an approving glance；

Then the tension vanished.

Juliana tightened her grip on his arm and gave me a small, victorious smile.

Dominic passed by me.

His hand lifted on instinct, fingers curving toward my shoulder—an old habit, he used to brush lint from my coat or tug me closer without thinking.

He stopped halfway.

Then his hand shifted course. He turned instead and reached up to Juliana, adjusting her hair, smoothing a loose strand back into place with deliberate care, as if the interruption had always been intentional.

Halfway there, he stopped.

Instead, he turned and reached up to adjust Juliana’s hair, smoothing a loose strand back into place with deliberate care.

He leaned closer as he passed, close enough that his shoulder brushed mine, his voice lowered so only I could hear.

“Good judgment,” he said quietly—approval wrapped in indifference, the kind given to someone who knows when to step aside. “When you really get married, I’ll arrange a house for you. A car.”

He paused, just long enough for the words to settle.

“Consider it compensation.”

The tone was calm. Measured. Almost generous.

Like an executive signing off on severance for a project that had finally run its course.

The dinner began.

I sat alone at the far end of the long table, posture perfect, expression untouched, watching Dominic and Juliana preside at the head. Guests flowed toward them in steady streams, glasses raised, smiles polished. I heard it clearly then—voices lowering with respect as they addressed her.

“Donna Juliana.”

Compliments followed easily. Praise for Dominic’s discernment. Admiration for a union of equal power, equal bloodlines. A partnership destined to strengthen the city’s balance.

He felt my gaze before I looked away.

Dominic turned his head, eyes finding mine across the length of the table. He lifted his glass—not in warmth, not in gratitude, but with that familiar precision. Assessment. Acknowledgment. The cool satisfaction of a man who believes everything is proceeding exactly as planned.

I raised my glass in return, my smile flawless.

I hope you can still smile like this, Dominic.

Three days from now.

When your heir is gone—

and you finally understand what it cost you to underestimate me.

After the banquet came the dance.

It wasn’t romance—it was display. A deliberate exhibition of the Santoro family’s wealth and reach, meant to impress every guest in attendance and grease the wheels of future alliances in every direction imaginable.

I stood alone at the edge of the ballroom, perfectly placed, perfectly invisible.

Juliana Lancaster moved through the crowd like she owned the air itself.

She wasn’t in white this time but in a deep imperial blue satin gown, the kind that didn’t sparkle loudly yet made every other color retreat. Emerald earrings brushed her neck with each step, and an antique diamond comb held her hair in place—old money, old power, unquestionable status. Applause followed her naturally, instinctively.

She stopped in front of me.

Her gaze drifted down, casual, unhurried—landing on the faint mark just visible above the neckline of my dress.

A kiss mark.

Dominic’s.

Something sharp flickered through her eyes. Mockery. Confirmation.

“Victoria,” she said softly, almost kindly. “Why are you standing here alone?”

She tilted her head, her expression polished into concern, as if she were doing me a favor by noticing.

“Shouldn’t your fiancé be with you?” Her eyes swept the floor theatrically. “This is my engagement party, after all. You don’t look very happy.”

Her lips curved, delicate and precise.

“Unless…” She paused, lowering her voice just enough that only I could hear. “The fiancé you keep mentioning is Dominic?”

She stepped closer, close enough for her words to brush against my ear.

“You should really learn your place,” she murmured, sweet as poison. “You’re nothing more than something he uses in bed.”

Before I could respond, a familiar presence closed in from behind.

“Darling,” Dominic’s voice cut in calmly, effortlessly. “What are you talking about?”

His arm slid around Juliana’s waist, practiced and possessive, pulling her flush against his side.

I might as well have been part of the marble pillar behind me.

“Oh, nothing,” Juliana said lightly, leaning into him. “I was just worried Miss Victoria looked a little lonely over here.”

Dominic’s gaze flicked to me, cold and assessing.

“Your fiancé is here,” he said flatly. “He was asking for you.”

As if summoned by the words, a man approached.

Matteo—one of Dominic’s inner circle captains, his trusted lieutenant.

“I just got back from handling a situation,” Matteo said, nodding to me. “Looks like I didn’t miss the highlight.”

My face felt tight. My chest ached.

Still, I smiled.

“Well then,” Matteo added easily, extending his hand, “shall we dance?”

The orchestra swelled.

I placed my hand in his.

Across the floor, Dominic led Juliana into the center, the crowd parting for them like water.

As we moved, Matteo leaned closer, his voice low.

“The Don gave orders,” he said. “No one ruins this engagement. Play your role. Be a good fiancée.”

My vision blurred.

A single tear slipped free, unnoticed by anyone, swallowed by the glare of chandeliers and the swell of music.

They were perfect.

At the center of the floor, their steps matched effortlessly, every turn precise, every pause seamless—as if they had practiced together for years.

I remembered him telling me once, almost lazily, that he didn’t dance. That it wasn’t his thing.

He hadn’t lied.

He simply hadn’t wanted to dance with me.

And then—

The music cut off.

Shouts erupted.

Men surged from the crowd, faces masked, weapons raised.

Chaos detonated without warning.

Before I could react, rough hands seized me from behind.

Another set grabbed Juliana at the same time.

Black hoods were yanked over our heads.

Darkness swallowed everything.

We were dragged—boots scraping marble, bodies colliding, wrists wrenched back and bound tight.

Somewhere nearby, a distorted voice echoed, deliberately amused.

“So these are the two women,” it said. “One’s your mistress. One’s your fiancée.”

“Let’s see which one is worth more.”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“One life. Ten million dollars.”

I heard Dominic’s voice cut in, cold and controlled, edged with warning.

“Do you really think you can take the money and walk out of my territory unharmed”

Laughter answered him. Mocking. Confident.

“Not your concern.”

The thunder of rotors split the air. A helicopter.

“One hand for the money,” the voice said, closer now, “one hand for the women.”

I heard movement. The heavy rustle of bundled cash being dragged across stone.

Dominic didn’t hesitate.

The kidnappers laughed in approval as a cable dropped from above. The money was secured, hauled upward in seconds. Then hands moved again—Juliana was released.

She stumbled free beside me, breathing fast, unharmed.

Dominic’s voice followed immediately.

“Give us thirty minutes. The other ten million is on its way. There isn’t that much cash on hand.”

For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

Then one of the kidnappers burst out laughing.

“See?” he crowed. “I told you she was worth just as much as the fiancée. You idiots lost the bet. Back home, you’re washing my socks.”

Someone whistled. Someone else clicked their tongue in disappointment.

Beside me, Juliana let out a soft gasp.

“That’s… a lot,” she murmured, not quite horrified. Almost regretful. “But isn’t she just an underling?”

Silence fell again.

Then another voice joined in. Sharp with authority.

Juliana’s brother.

“She’s a Lancaster princess,” he said flatly. “Not something a cleaner can be compared to.”

He turned to Dominic.

“Are you sure you want to pay for her?”

A beat.

“If you do,” he added coolly, “we’ll need to reconsider the marriage alliance between our families.”

Dominic didn’t hesitate.

“No,” he said. “You’re right.”

The words landed like a gunshot inside my chest.

He turned back to the kidnappers.

“I’m not paying. Do whatever you want with her.”

Someone whooped.

“I fucking knew it!” a voice shouted. “Dominic Santoro was never going to ruin a marriage for a mistress. You lost!”

“Fuck,” another spat, irritated. “What a waste of time.”

A boot slammed into my back, and I curled instinctively inward, arms tightening around my abdomen as I shielded it with my body.

“Since the Don doesn’t want her,” the man snarled, grabbing me again, “then she’s ours.”

They started dragging me away.

Then—Gunfire.Sharp. Precise.

One of the men holding me jerked violently and collapsed. Blood sprayed hot against my leg.

“Snipers!” someone screamed.

The two men restraining me panicked instantly. One shoved me forward, yanking me upright, pressing a gun to my back.

“You crazy bastard!” he shouted toward Dominic. “Your mistress is right here! Fire again and I’ll blow her head off!”

Dominic’s voice rang out, colder than I had ever heard it.

“She’s not my mistress,” he said. “And anyone who causes trouble in Santoro territory doesn’t leave standing.”

He gave the order.

More shots.

Above us, the helicopter dropped smoke—thick, choking—and then the deafening clatter of grenades hitting stone.

The man dragging me cursed viciously. He shoved me aside, hard.

As he climbed for the rope, he turned back and fired.

The impact hit my leg. White-hot pain tore through me.

“Bitch,” he snarled. “Isn’t it said you slept with the Don? And he still treats you like this. If I’d known you were this worthless, I’d have run sooner.”

Explosions roared.

The world tilted, blurred.

When I opened my eyes, the light was soft and clinical.

“You’re awake,” old Dr. Smith said gently as he checked my pupils. “You’re lucky. The bullet went clean through your leg. I’ve already treated the wound and stopped the bleeding.”

He paused, his expression turning more serious.

“When the explosion went off, you were bent over, hiding behind a pillar,” he continued carefully. “That’s why your back suffered burn injuries from the blast. I’ve cleaned and dressed those as well.”

Then he hesitated, just long enough for my heart to tighten.

“And the child,” he said at last, softer now, “is fine.”

My fingers curled weakly beneath the sheet.

“When are you marrying the captain?” he asked quietly. “This baby is fortunate.”

“I’ll let you know once the date is set,” I replied hoarsely.

“…Dominic?” I asked.

The doctor paused.

“The Boss is with Miss Juliana. She’s in the VIP ward. Very shaken.”

Shaken.

I let out a silent laugh.

“Doctor,” I said. “Turn on the monitor.”

The screen lit up.

Juliana lay in silk sheets, pale and fragile. Dominic sat beside her, feeding her soup with careful patience, his movements reverent.

“I almost lost you,” his voice trembled. “I can’t live without you.”

“I know,” she whispered. “You saved me.”

Then he reached into his pocket.

A velvet box.

My breath stopped.

He knelt.

Inside lay the Santoro matriarch’s ring.

“Marry me,” Dominic said softly. “Not for the family. Not for alliances. Because I love you.”

“Yes,” Juliana sobbed. “Yes.”

The screen blurred.

So he knew how to say it.

Just never to me.

The doctor watched me quietly.

“I’ve seen you grow up with him,” he said at last. “You were never suited for him. I know you loved him. But he’s engaged now.”

A pause.

“Since you’re already with Matteo… let it go.”

Later, through another feed, I saw Dominic speaking sharply.

“She should never have been saved,” he said coldly. “She’s not worth it.”

Then he lifted another ring.

A Don’s ring.

And behind it—

the wedding dress.

The one I had once seen him sketch in secret.

Not for me.

Never for me.