I am the wife of Declan Rafferty, the Don of the Chicago mob.

After we married, his devotion became an obsession. He made a spectacle of our love, and I believed it all. I thought his flamboyant gestures were born from a passion so great, the whole world had to bear witness.

Until the night I found him by the lake, kissing another woman—Sloane Castillo. I heard him whisper to her, "The only way to keep you safe, Sloane, is to make Willow my weakness. She has to be your shield."

I finally understood. All the dangers I had faced, all the bullets I had taken for him, were nothing but a sick, twisted joke.

Fine. Two can play at that game.

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1

"Are you insane, Declan? Your wife took a bullet for you, Willow lost the baby, and she's barely clinging to life—and you're running off to Sloane Castillo because she got a little spooked? This will destroy you. It will destroy what's left of you and Willow."

The voice of my husband's Consigliere, Caleb Flynn, seeped through the wall.

I froze, my hand hovering over the doorknob.

This villa was filled with soundproofed rooms and hidden passages. I shouldn't have been able to hear a thing unless someone was screaming.

A moment later, a sickening thud echoed from the room—the sound of something heavy slamming against the wall.

"What do you mean, Sloane is the only one you love? Do you have any idea what being your wife has cost her? She's been a living target for five years, all for you! If you don't love her, then for God's sake, let her go! You know damn well if the roles were reversed, Sloane would have sold you to the Feds without a second thought!"

"Shut up! How else am I supposed to guarantee Sloane's safety if I don't use Willow as a shield? Besides, I've given her everything the wife of a Don could ever dream of. This life is more than enough payment for the risks." Declan's voice was a low growl, laced with an indisputable, chilling authority.

I leaned against the cool wall, my legs threatening to give out as the words washed over me.

All these years, he loved someone else? And I was just a shield?

I staggered back toward my bedroom. The wound in my abdomen, a fresh souvenir from the bullet I’d taken for him, throbbed with a searing pain. Fresh blood was already soaking through the bandages. Still, the physical agony was nothing compared to the chasm that had just opened in my heart.

On the bedside table, an apple slice he had peeled for me sat browning on a plate, a cold, mocking relic of a love that was never real.

He had always been so good to me. Everyone in our circle envied the way he flaunted his affection for me.

He was Declan Rafferty, the Don of Chicago's Irish mob, a man who held the city's underworld in an iron grip.

And for five years, as his wife, I had survived two assassination attempts and nearly bled out in a back-alley gunfight.

I had risked my life for him, again and again, clinging to the belief that his love for me was as fierce and true as mine was for him. It was all a lie.

"Did you leave the room?"

His cold voice cut through the silence from behind me.

I spun around, and tears instantly welled in my eyes as I met his deep-set gaze.

I had so often felt like the luckiest woman alive to have married such a handsome man. Now, all I saw in his eyes was a terrifying void.

"Willow? Did I startle you? What is it?"

He was sharp, dangerously perceptive. I forced a brittle smile. "I woke up and you were gone. It just... it scared me. I'm just… trying to catch my breath."

The truth wasn't far off. Overnight, I had gone from a quiet painter to a Don's wife. After that last gunfight, I’d been diagnosed with PTSD. The slightest thing could set me off, and I couldn't bear it when Declan was out of my sight.

He didn't seem to suspect a thing. He leaned down, pressing a soft, soothing kiss to my forehead. His long fingers traced my jawline, his thumb gently rubbing my earlobe. His fingertips trailed down the curve of my neck, finally coming to rest on my spine.

A gasp escaped my lips.

His broad palm settled on my waist, the heat of it a brand against my skin.

"I have to leave for a bit tomorrow. Be a good girl and stay home for me, hmm?" He kissed the corner of my mouth, his hot breath fanning against my ear.

I flinched, my hands instinctively gripping his shirt. "Declan, the wound... I'm still healing."

His expression soured. He swiftly pulled back the covers, his gaze falling on the blood-soaked gauze. He swore under his breath, his brow knitting in concern. "Willow, you're going to be the death of me."

He changed the dressing himself, his touch surprisingly gentle.

I watched the genuine worry in his eyes and felt a fresh wave of nausea. My mind kept replaying Caleb's words, Declan's words.

He had to leave tomorrow. Where was he going?

To her? To the woman who was worth more than my life?

That night, Declan held me close and slept soundly.

I didn't sleep a wink, my body stiff in his arms as I feigned every peaceful breath. The moment I heard his car pull away the next morning, my eyes snapped open.

His study was just down the hall. It housed his prized collections, including a custom-made cigar box. He'd once let it slip, drunk and careless, that it had a false bottom.

Anyone who walked into his study would have been impressed by his refined taste, the walls lined with priceless art.

Only I knew that hidden in the secret compartment of that cigar box was a ledger and an encrypted USB drive.

He’d confessed its existence to me in a drunken stupor once, and I remembered the flash of regret on his face the morning after. Lost in the haze of my love for him, I had thought nothing of it.

And he never remembered telling me.

With that thought, I slid open the compartment and pulled out the dusty ledger.

The USB drive was protected by a complex password, proof of how valuable its contents were. I never imagined that the digital cryptography course I'd taken for my art history degree would ever be used for something like this.

After breaking the encryption, I opened the first folder. My breath caught. Inside were scans of countless love letters to "Sloane," written in his aggressive, slanted script.

Each one was a raw, detailed confession of his love and desire for her. They were penned with a kind of desperate care I had never seen from him, a mix of untamed passion and cold restraint.

He was always so casual with me, so easygoing. I’d mistaken it for the comfortable, mature love that comes after the fever of courtship.

The truth was simpler. He just didn't love me.

I flipped toward the back of the ledger, my blood running cold as I read the faded ink on the yellowed pages.

The words chilled me to the bone.

"Someone made a move on Sloane. She was right. A man in my position can't afford a weakness. A lover is a weakness. I have to hide her!"

"That painter girl is so easy to fool."

"My mind was on Sloane all day. Willow, the fool, thinks my dark moods are about her. Let her think it. As long as it keeps Sloane safe, I don't give a damn what she thinks."

"She'd probably die for the privilege of being my wife."

"This will come back to haunt me. I arranged the 'accidental' gunfight, controlled every variable, ensuring her car would drive right into the line of fire. She shattered, just as I'd planned. Now, she'll be too terrified to ever leave my side. I'll make it up to her. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to her."

I pressed my fingers hard against my eyelids, a futile attempt to stop the burning tears.

So I was never the one he wanted to stand with in the light.

From our first meeting to our wedding vows… my entire life with him had been a lie, a real-life version of "The Truman Show" where I was the only one who didn't know the script.

I closed the ledger and slid it carefully back into its hiding place. It wasn't until I was out of the study and the door was closed behind me that the sobs I’d been holding back finally broke free.

I curled into a ball on our bed, the memory of the gunfight playing behind my eyes.

We had been inseparable back then. I had just left my gallery, bursting to tell him the news that I was pregnant, when my car was caught in a storm of bullets.

They ripped through the metal like paper. One tore through the door and into my side, and our baby was gone before I even knew for sure it was there.

I was fading when Declan found me, his frantic face the last thing I saw before he swept me into his arms.

That was when the terror took root. My confidence, my independence—it all shattered. I couldn't stand to be away from him.

He comforted me, told me it was okay, that we didn't need children.

Of course he didn't want a child with me. He had personally orchestrated the event that took it away.

The man I thought was my savior was the very architect of my ruin. The love that I thought had saved me was the cage he'd built.

The pain was suffocating. My body began to shake, a violent, uncontrollable tremor born of pure despair.

After the wave of agony passed, I lay still, a strange calm settling over me.

I replayed every moment with Declan, every single detail.

In five years, I had stared death in the face more times than I could count, and every time, he was the one who pulled me back from the brink.

His worry for me was real; I knew that much. But it wasn't born of love. It was the fear of losing his real love's shield.

With trembling hands, I opened the USB drive and began to sift through years of his business files.

There. A partnership with a jewelry designer. The very one who created all the custom pieces he had gifted me over the years.

In the designer's folder, I found sketches for every piece of jewelry I owned. And on every single one, a note: a primary design for Sloane Castillo, with a secondary version for Willow Rafferty, to be made from the leftover materials.

A quick search led me to Sloane's social media. She lived in a sprawling estate, a perfect portrait of high society. Her latest post was a photo of her wrapped in a man's arms.

The caption read simply: "My love, now and forever."

I zoomed in. On the man's wrist was a family tattoo I'd never seen before. And the man was Declan.

He had told me he hated tattoos, that they were for common soldati, not for a Don. I'd believed that our wedding rings were the only marks we needed.

And I'd thought it was a sign of his class.

He just wasn't willing to be marked for me.

I kept scrolling. On Valentine's Day, he had gifted her a breathtaking set of custom sapphire jewelry, all crafted from flawless, top-grade stones.

That same day, he gave me a simple sapphire necklace, made from the secondary-grade stones.

On our anniversary, he had a diamond suite custom-made for Sloane, the center stone a perfect, D-flawless rock.

That same day, he gave me a small brooch, set with chips and fragments.

Scraps. Always the scraps.

I buried my face in my pillow and laughed, a raw, hysterical sound that tore from my throat. For a second, I thought my heart had stopped.

To Declan, I was just a shield. A sacrifice.

And all his gifts were just the leftovers, the discarded pieces from the treasures he so carefully chose for her.

Five years of my life, my love, my devotion—all turned to dust.

I cried until the sun came up.

In the middle of the night, a text from Declan lit up my phone. "Thinking of you." I used to treasure those messages, thinking he couldn't bear to be apart from me.

Now I knew. He was just checking on his asset. Making sure his shield was still in place.

I wouldn't make it that easy for him. The next morning, I contacted a forger and told him I needed a new, clean identity, fast.

When Declan came home that night, the first thing he did was bury his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.

"Miss me, Willow? I couldn't sleep a wink without you."

I could see the dark circles under his eyes. He probably hadn't slept.

In the past, my heart would have ached for him. Now, I felt nothing but a cold, hard knot in my stomach. I was as rigid as a corpse in his arms.

This charade, this lie of affection—it disgusted me.

"Shy tonight?" he chuckled, pulling me tighter against him. A soft moan escaped my lips, a sound I hadn't meant to make. I was his toy, and it never occurred to him that he might be disturbing my rest.

Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes, soaking the pillow, but he never noticed. To him, my sorrow didn't exist.

The next morning, I woke to find him staring at me, his expression grim. The air crackled with a tension that made me tremble.

"Your phone was buzzing. Who's asking about 'document delivery'?"

I glanced at my phone. A message from the forger. The documents were ready. My new life would be active in three hours.

I forced a smile. "Oh, that? Just a spam alert. I've been getting so many scam texts lately, I set up a filter to flag them."

"Oh." He leaned in, his hand moving to the back of my head, his grip rough. He kissed me, hard, stealing my breath until I went limp in his arms.

"Don't lie to me, Willow," he whispered against my lips. "Don't you ever betray me."

I nodded frantically, tears of sheer terror welling in my eyes. My fingertips were numb and cold.

Just a little longer.

Just hold on a little longer.

Soon, you'll be free. Soon, there will be no Willow Rafferty.

Mercifully, his phone rang, saving me.

"What? Sloane is back?" he barked into the phone. "Who the hell authorized that? Stay put. I'm on my way." He was gone in a flash, not even a backward glance in my direction.

I took a deep, shuddering breath.

One more thing to do. A new identity wasn't enough. I needed to sever every tie.

Once I'd composed myself, I messaged the private investigator I kept on retainer. A few minutes later, a reply came back with a string of digits. Sloane's number.

I dialed. "Hello. This is Declan's wife. We need to talk."