I was a mafia princess, sick of the life. After my father died, all I wanted was a normal life.

I helped my husband, Marco, take his company public. I fought his battles. I took care of his mother. I paid for his sister’s tuition and her addiction to luxury.

Then, at our tenth-anniversary party, he gave my mother's bracelet to his childhood flame, Isabella.

He even fucked her in our bed.

I hired a PI. Found out he knew who I was from the start.

He used me. Planned to be a Wall Street hotshot, then toss me aside.

He thought my family was wiped out. That no one had my back. That he could walk all over me.

He didn’t break until his company was bleeding partners and staring down bankruptcy.

He got on his knees, crying and begging me to forgive him.

I was a mafia princess in hiding. I gave my husband everything. Then, right after his company went public, he cheated on me at the party I threw for him.

With his childhood sweetheart, Isabella.

“Elena, you can’t even iron an Hermès scarf? Look at these wrinkles. It’s a cheap rag.”

I stopped. The steam from the iron—or maybe my own rage—blurred my vision.

Marco’s mother, Amelia, threw the expensive scarf back at me, her face full of contempt.

“Maria, you iron this.”

I ignored Amelia's glare and tossed the scarf to the maid.

Tonight was the celebration for my husband Marco’s company going public. It was also our tenth wedding anniversary.

Ten years ago, I was the youngest heir to the Moretti family. Destined to be the next Godmother.

After my father, Antonio Moretti, died in a shootout, all five families were watching. They all wanted to see how a twenty-two-year-old girl would take over the empire.

I disappointed them.

Before he died, my father held my hand. He didn’t ask for revenge. He didn’t ask me to restore the family honor.

He just begged me, his voice choked with tears.

"Elena, my princess. I want you to leave this life behind. Wash the blood off the Moretti name. Just live. Be happy and safe."

I was sick of the bloodshed. The endless cycle of revenge and betrayal.

After the funeral, I left the family in the hands of Tony, my father’s right-hand man.

I took my $800 million trust fund and walked away from that life.

I wanted a normal life.

I lived as a painter. And I met Marco.

Back then, he was a broke analyst from a tiny Brooklyn apartment who chased me like his life depended on it.

He thought I was an orphan with nothing and no one. He swore he’d give me the world.

I believed him.

I used my trust fund to give him a five-million-dollar seed investment, lying that I’d sold some paintings.

I worked my connections for him. I took care of his demanding mother. I paid for his sister Sofia’s endless shopping sprees.

And then Marco's company went public.

I went from his "angel investor" to a "trophy wife who only knows how to spend his money."

Marco’s sister, Sofia, leaned against the doorframe.

She filed her new nails and spoke in a cool, bored tone. “Mom, what do you expect from her? Isabella's right, she's not good enough for my brother. And now that his company’s public, she’s trying to tack her stupid anniversary onto his big night!”

Isabella.

She was just better at playing the game. A better liar.

Everything Marco had, he built on my money and my sacrifice.

“Elena!” Marco came down the stairs, looking as handsome as ever in his tailored suit.

He walked over to me, his voice soft, like he was calming a pet.

“Honey, let the maid handle the scarf. I need to talk to you.”

His tone made me uneasy.

“The guests will be here in an hour,” I reminded him.

“I know.” He took my hand, but his eyes went straight to the antique diamond bracelet on my wrist.

“Honey, give me the bracelet for a second. I’ll have it sent to Bvlgari for a cleaning.”

It was the last thing my parents left me. The symbol of the Moretti matriarch.

I had told him it was the most precious thing my “dead parents” had ever given me.

I didn’t question it. I let him unclasp it.

He took the bracelet. But instead of putting it in its box, he turned to Isabella, who had just walked in.

“Isabella, I’m counting on you tonight.” Marco’s voice took on a softness I hadn’t heard in years.

He took her hand.

And then, he took the bracelet—the Moretti family bracelet—and slowly fastened it onto her wrist.

“Marco, this is too much…” Isabella said, but her eyes were shining with triumph.

“Only you deserve it,” Marco said, staring at her like we weren't even there.

“Perfect!” Sofia clapped. “It looks so beautiful on Isabella. That’s what the lady of the house should look like!”

Marco’s mother nodded in satisfaction. “Marco needs a partner who can help his career. Not some wallflower who just paints her gloomy pictures and can’t even iron a scarf.”

My blood ran cold.

Who the hell gave them the nerve to write me off the second Marco got a taste of real power?

“So,” my voice trembled. “Let me get this straight. On our anniversary, the wife is the maid, and the mistress gets to be the lady of the house, wearing my mother's jewels?”

Marco’s expression flickered, but he quickly put his gentle mask back on.

“Elena, don’t be difficult. Isabella knows how to handle these important guests. It’s important for my career, which means it’s important for our future. You just need to stay in the art gallery. Let your paintings be the perfect backdrop.”

Stay in the gallery with my paintings. Like another piece of art on the wall.

In my own home.

On my wedding anniversary.

Isabella stroked the diamonds on her wrist and stepped toward me. “Elena, thank you for all you’ve done for tonight. Your contributions to this night... are noted. Especially your art. A little grim for my taste, but very… unique.”

The sight of them, so smug and shameless, made my stomach turn.

"Marco, you better figure out who the hell the lady of this house really is."

"Elena, you're misunderstanding," Marco said, reaching for my hand. "This is all for our future."

I stepped back, pulling away from his touch.

"Our future?" I motioned to Isabella, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Does our future have a guest star?"

"Don't be ridiculous." His patience was wearing thin. "Isabella is helping. She knows the wives of three potential investors here tonight."

Isabella walked toward me, the bracelet flashing under the lights.

She deliberately lifted her wrist, making the diamonds catch the light.

"Elena, you should understand Marco's position." Her voice was sickeningly sweet. "Business is war. He needs all the help he can get."

Marco's mother nodded. "Isabella's right. Elena, you're always so emotional."

"Emotional?" I scoffed. "Do you have any idea what I've put into this family?"

Sofia rolled her eyes. "Here we go again. Every time you're upset, you bring up money."

"Money?" My voice turned sharp. "Sofia, those Louboutins on your feet? That Hermès bag you're holding? Who paid for them?"

Sofia snapped back.

"That was Marco's money! You just hold the purse strings."

"And you," I turned to Marco's mother. "Your oceanfront villa in Florida—I pay the monthly maintenance. Your private doctor, your driver, your living expenses—"

"Enough!" Marco cut me off. "Elena, this is ugly."

Ugly?

His company had just gone public and he thought he was the wolf of Wall Street?

I was the one who got him into high society.

I pulled every string I had to get him in rooms with the real players.

To protect his fragile ego, I always let him take the credit.

He had no idea that for his first big pitch, the client wouldn't even meet with him.

I had to make one quiet call to Tony, pull one of our family’s strings, just to get him in the door.

"Marco, let me ask you something." I looked him straight in the eye. "Without the money from my 'paintings,' without my support, where would you be right now?"

His face darkened. "Elena, are you threatening me?"

"Threatening you?" I shook my head. "I'm stating a fact."

Isabella laughed. "Elena, do you really think money is all a man cares about?"

She stepped closer, the bracelet practically in my face.

"Marco needs a woman who understands him. A partner who shines in a crowd."

She paused, her voice turning sharp. "Not some weirdo who hides away in a studio, painting her creepy little pictures."

Marco said nothing.

His silence hurt more than anything.

Sofia giggled from the side.

She pointed at the huge, red-and-black abstract painting on the main wall.

"Isabella's right. Your paintings are... something else, Elena. It looks like a crime scene. All that red… it's a bad omen."

"It is," his mother added. "I've been meaning to suggest you hang something brighter. All that darkness is just depressing."

My heart seized.

The painting was called Embers of Memory.

I painted it after my parents' funeral.

Every slash of red on that canvas was me bleeding out my grief.

It was my only memorial to my past.

I had told Marco what it meant. That it was to remember my "parents."

And now, he just stood there while they called it trash.

I looked at him.

He just frowned and said, in a placating tone, "Elena, maybe they have a point. The guests are important. Perhaps... we could put the painting in storage, just for tonight? We can hang it back up after the party."

Just for tonight.

Like a piece of garbage to be hidden away.

The ice in my veins began to burn.

For ten years, I had played the part of a normal wife. In that moment, I was done with the game.

I was about to snap back when my phone buzzed.

A message from the P.I.

[Ms. Moretti, I have the results you wanted. Found something... shocking.]

A video and a report followed.

I stepped aside and opened the video. My heart stopped.

My own bedroom stared back at me from the screen.

And on my bed, a tangle of limbs. Marco and Isabella.

She was wearing my silk nightgown, her moans echoing in my sanctuary.

"So, do you actually love her?" Isabella’s voice dripped with venom.

Marco's voice was muffled against her neck, thick with lust, but the words came through crystal clear:

"Love her? Please. I've been playing a role for ten years, and I'm sick of pretending. Without her trust fund and the Moretti name, I wouldn't waste my time touching her."

Isabella giggled. "What if she finds out? The Moretti family... they're not just some old money, are they? Aren't they... Mafia?"

"What's to be afraid of?" Marco's voice was dripping with arrogance. "The Morettis are a ghost story. They're finished. She thinks I don't know who she is? I've known for a decade. She's just some stupid woman with a pile of cash. I can play her however I want."

I fast-forwarded through the rest of the filth.

A wave of nausea hit me.

Disgusted that they would defile my bed.

Disgusted that he dismissed the Moretti name as history.

But most of all, disgusted that for ten years, I had been his prize canary, trapped in a golden cage.

He thought I was a nobody.

I scanned the report.

The title: Background Check on Elena Moretti. The date was ten years ago.

It detailed everything. How Marco hired the P.I. to find out who I was.

The size of my trust fund. Even our first "chance" meeting at that coffee shop. It was all a setup.

The last page read:

"Recommendation: Target is an orphan. Family legacy: Extinct. No powerful connections. Possesses significant personal wealth. Target is vulnerable. Prime for a long-term play to secure financial assets. Risk level: Low."

Low risk.

What did he think I was?

A lamb for the slaughter?

My ten-year marriage. Everything I gave.

From start to finish, it was all a carefully planned scam.

My body trembled. I wanted to strangle Marco right then and there.

Then the doorbell rang.

The first guests had arrived.

Marco instantly put on his game face. Isabella took his arm, ready to greet them.

I saw my mother's bracelet sparkling on that bitch's wrist. The rage in my chest was about to explode.

"I need to powder my nose," I said flatly.

Marco waved a hand without turning. "Go ahead. And remember, don't embarrass me tonight."

Don't embarrass him?

I went upstairs, a cold smile on my face, and walked into the bedroom. I locked the door.

From the nightstand, I took out a burner phone. One Marco had never seen.

It was from Tony. For emergencies.

I dialed a number.

"Tony, it's me."

"Boss?" Tony's voice was a mix of shock and excitement. "You're finally calling."

"I need you to do a few things for me." I walked to the window, watching the guests arrive below. "Right now."

"Name it, Boss."

I watched Marco shaking hands and smiling downstairs. A cold curve formed on my lips.

"I'm going to burn his entire world to the ground. In front of every single person here. Have a car ready in an hour."

They wanted to humiliate me? Fine. I'd turn their celebration into a funeral.