The Third Canceled Ceremony

My husband, Julian Thorne, is the head of the Chicago Outfit. After our secret marriage, he promised a grand ceremony to officially name me his Donna. He only ever made that promise when he needed to appease his mistress, Cassandra Vance.

Over three years, he canceled this crucial ceremony three times, using excuses that always seemed to circle back to Cassandra. He left me to face the whispers and scorn of his inner circle alone.

Whenever my heart broke and I protested, Julian would wave away my concerns. He’d claim Cassandra was just a “tool” and that I was the one he truly loved, telling me not to get hung up on titles.

After the third public humiliation, I finally went numb. I decided to end it.

I slid a power of attorney for all his assets—disguised as a design contract for a new casino—in front of him. "Sign this," I told him, "and we can start over."

————————

————————

1

For the second time, Julian Thorne canceled the ceremony that would have named me his Donna. This time, it was for the grand opening of his new casino.

The party was orchestrated by Cassandra Vance, who acted as hostess.

Everyone in the family treated her as if she were the real Donna.

"Don Thorne and Miss Vance are a match made in heaven, the king and queen of Chicago!"

"Why don't we have our queen start the opening dance?"

"That's right! We want to see the Don dance with his lady!"

I heard every single jeer.

As Julian's wife of three years—a wife in name only, never publicly acknowledged—I could only watch from the periphery as he and Cassandra held each other on the dance floor, his gaze adoring.

After the party, Julian told me to find my own way home. He had to deal with a family dispute that Cassandra had “accidentally” provoked.

A black, limited-edition sports car purred to a stop beside me. The window slid down to reveal Cassandra, passed out in the passenger seat.

Julian’s gaze fell on me, his tone cold and dismissive.

"Find your own way home. I have to take Cassandra back."

I lowered my eyes, saying nothing.

Julian was a notorious mysophobe; he never allowed anything stained with blood or filth inside his car.

I remembered the time I’d nearly died taking a knife for him, a blade meant for him from a rival family. My white dress had been soaked in blood.

Afterward, he’d frowned in disgust. "You're filthy," he'd said. "Have my men take you to a private hospital."

He left me there, bleeding on the cold pavement.

I was in surgery for hours, and it took forty-eight more before the doctors declared me stable.

And now, here was Cassandra, reeking of cheap champagne and sprawled in his pristine passenger seat.

So, his rules only applied to me.

A bitter smile twisted my lips, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.

"Is our ceremony next month still on?"

Julian hesitated.

"I have to clean up Cassandra's mess from tonight. That means a trip to Sicily tomorrow to smooth things over with her family. The ceremony will have to be rescheduled."

A familiar coldness seeped into my heart, but I managed a slight nod. "Okay."

After a beat, I pulled a thick document from my bag and held it out to him.

"Sign this."

Perhaps it was guilt, but Julian didn't even glance at it.

He uncapped a pen and scrawled his signature across the bottom line.

Then his eyes met mine.

"When I get back from Sicily, I'll bring you that antique jewelry you had your eye on," he promised.

With that, he got in the car and drove away.

…

It was noon the next day when Julian returned.

He stood before the mirror, shrugging off the suit jacket that carried the faint, cloying scent of Cassandra's perfume.

Suddenly, he froze, his head tilting slightly as he watched my reflection in the mirror. I was sitting on the edge of our bed.