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."

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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.

"Was there something… special about that design contract I signed yesterday?"

I looked up, a flicker of sorrow crossing my eyes before they settled into a dead calm.

"You didn't care when you were signing. Why ask now?" I shot back.

"It just crossed my mind. Besides, you're my wife. You'd never hurt me," Julian answered, his confidence absolute.

It was a passing thought, nothing more.

I lowered my gaze, hiding the sting of his words.

"Aren't you afraid I'll sign your entire empire over to myself?"

His jaw tightened.

He frowned, a flash of alarm and displeasure in his eyes.

"Are you kidding?"

He closed the distance between us, his hands gently cupping my face. His voice was a low, commanding caress. "You know I'd go insane if you ever left me."

"If it came down to it, I'd give you the whole damn empire myself."

Julian stared at me, his gaze burning with raw possessiveness.

I knew that possessiveness was real. So were his feelings, in their own twisted way.

And that was why my "joke" was anything but.

The document I'd had him sign was the death warrant for his empire.

A five-year courtship, a three-year marriage.

It was finally over.

…

That afternoon, I returned to the penthouse we had designed together and went straight to the walk-in closet. I began quietly packing my things.

His Consigliere, Marco, walked in, a confused look on his face.

"Are you sure about this, Seraphina?"

"You've been with the Don longer than anyone. We all used to say that even if the Thorne family crumbled, you'd be the last one standing."

"Why… so suddenly?"

Marco trailed off. I lowered my gaze.

Until yesterday, I would have agreed with him.

This vast business empire was the legitimate front Julian and I had built from nothing.

We had worked side-by-side, fought for every inch.

When our first casino hotel was finished, Julian used the first "clean" money we'd ever earned to book the entire top-floor restaurant just for me.

That night, we sat at the highest point in Chicago, looking down at the sea of lights.

Julian held me close and said I was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

A wistful smile touched my lips.

"Everyone has their reasons. I've made my decision."

Marco looked at me, his eyes full of regret.

"Since your mind is made up, I wish you all the best."

I thanked him quietly and closed the closet door.

Just as I latched the last suitcase, my phone screen lit up.

It was a new post from Cassandra on her private social media.

The photo was a selfie of her wearing the Thorne family's heirloom necklace.

The caption: "The one and only."

As if she were afraid I’d miss it, she had tagged me.

This was nothing new. It felt like half her posts were engineered just for me, either by tagging me directly or setting the privacy so I was the only one who could see them.

In the past, these petty games would have sent me into a spiral.

I would have fought with Julian, screamed at him.

And every time, he would dismiss it with a casual wave. "She's just a pawn, Seraphina. You're my wife. Don't be so petty."

He was so sure of my love, so certain I would never leave, that he felt free to hurt me without a second thought.

I smiled, but inside, my heart was fracturing.

Suddenly, a text from my assistant, Chloe, popped up: "Miss Vance is here."

My gaze lifted, and I saw her.

Cassandra, in a flowing dress, swept past the reception area and walked straight into Julian's study.

The heavy oak door swung shut in front of me.

I lowered my eyelids as my mind drifted back.

Julian had once held me in that very room.

His eyes had gleamed with a strange fire as he gestured to the Chicago nightscape. "Doesn't this feel thrilling?" he'd murmured. "Like we're having an affair."

He’d held me tight, his skin slick with sweat.

"After the ceremony," he’d panted, "I'll tell the whole world. You, Seraphina, are my Donna."

I smiled at the memory of my naive self, the pathetic girl who’d believed his sweet lies time and time again.

Then came the first humiliation. Then the second.

Now, with the legal death of his empire tucked safely in my bag, there would be no third.

…

Two hours later, as I was about to leave, one of Julian's bodyguards approached me. "The Don asked you to bring him a glass of whiskey."

He was notoriously picky, drinking only one specific vintage of single malt, with ice cubes of a precise dimension.

In this house, I was the only one who knew how he liked it.

I sighed and went to the liquor cabinet.

I didn't expect to find Cassandra there, leaning against it as if she owned the place.

When she saw me, a contemptuous smile curled her lips.

"Your temper has certainly improved, Seraphina. I thought for sure you'd have stormed the study by now to demand answers."

She deliberately raised her wrist, showing off the fresh tattoo of the Thorne family's thorny rose.

"Is that so?" I lowered my eyes, picking up the bottle. "Care for a glass? It's quite good."

My calm seemed to throw her off.

She looked me up and down as if I were some alien creature.

"Still playing the part of the silent, dutiful wife? Do you really think Julian won't abandon you?"

"Let me tell you something. The only reason Julian married you was because the heir of a rival family was obsessed with me back then."

"He needed to declare his sovereignty, so he took the fastest route: he claimed you."

"What nonsense are you spouting, Cassandra?"

Julian's tall frame filled the doorway of the narrow liquor lounge.