My husband, Dorian Halle, never loved me. He never loved our son, Leo, either.

The day our son was born, he didn't even spare the boy a glance. He just thrust him into my arms.

Then Cassandra, his first love—the one who’d betrayed him—returned from abroad.

That night, the perpetually cold Dorian got drunk for the first time. He even held our child and smiled.

Our son, ecstatic, wrapped his little arms around my husband's neck and whispered, "Mamma, what's wrong with Uncle?"

I knelt and pulled him close, my own eyes burning as I explained, "The one he's always wanted is back. We can't be in his way anymore. We’re going to find a new home."

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1

After tucking my son into bed, I returned to my room, opened my laptop, and began mapping out our escape.

Dorian and I had been married for seven years.

We've slept in separate rooms for seven years.

Tonight, I was finally breaking free from these shackles.

Knock, knock, knock.

I opened the door to find my seven-year-old son standing there.

"Mamma, are we really leaving?"

He looked at me, his eyes clouded with reluctance.

"But Uncle held me tonight. Does that mean he likes me now?"

I froze, my breath catching in my throat.

Even after seven years of a marriage alliance, Dorian never allowed our son to call him "Papa."

When Leo was four, Dorian took him to a family gathering. On the way, they ran into an acquaintance.

When Leo accidentally called him "Papa," Dorian dragged him home and locked him in the basement.

When I finally found him, Leo was huddled in a corner, trembling, his voice raw from screaming.

When Leo was six, he begged Dorian to take him to the shooting range.

But when our son once again slipped and called him "Papa," Dorian dropped his hand and walked away without a word.

Just like that, my six-year-old child was abandoned in a crowd of strangers.

When I finally found him, he was hiding behind a car, sobbing until he was breathless.

From then on, our son called him "Uncle," and we became a running joke within the family.

The memory brought a fresh wave of sorrow, and I couldn't stop myself from pulling him into a fierce hug.

"Leo, the one Uncle has always wanted is back. We can't live in this house anymore."

His eyes dimmed, but he quickly held up a small toy car.

"But Mamma, Uncle gave me this tonight. If he doesn't like me, why would he give me a present?"

His expression was desperate, pleading. He wanted so badly to prove his father loved him.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

What could I say?

How could I possibly explain?

That Dorian was only happy because his first love had returned?

That this small toy was just a byproduct of his joy over another woman?

I couldn't say a thing.

As always, I swallowed the bitter truth, plastering on a smile for my son.

I kissed Leo's forehead, secretly wiping a tear from the corner of my eye.

A mother will do anything to protect her child's heart, even build a castle of lies.

I fought back a sob and asked with a manufactured smile, "Leo, if Mamma wants to take you away from here, would you come with me?"

My son paused, then asked in a small voice, "Can't we stay?

"I didn't get a chance… for him to hold me like a real father…"

I could no longer hold back my tears. I bit my lip, hard.

"Leo, he doesn't want us in his house anymore.

"Mamma will take you somewhere new, okay?"

My son pulled his hand back, clutching the toy car as if it were a lifeline. He was silent for a long time before he finally spoke.

"I want to give Uncle three more chances. If… if he really doesn't want us, then we'll leave and never come back."

I closed my eyes, agreeing to my son’s painful request.

"Alright."

Dorian, my son and I will give you three more chances.

After that, you will cease to exist in our world.

Friday was the day Cassandra returned to Chicago.

They had once been fiancés, engaged right after graduation.

But just a month before their wedding, she’d abandoned Dorian, chasing some fantasy of love with another man.

From that moment, their paths diverged, never meant to cross again.

Dorian fell into a deep depression.

And I was the one who stayed by his side.

One reckless night, and a child was conceived.

Just like that, I became his wife in name only—a woman he barely acknowledged, the mother of a son he never wanted.

After printing the finalized escape plan, I began preparing my cover story.

Unlike my son, I was long past being hurt by Dorian's indifference. I wasn’t foolish enough to wait for a man like him to change.

Seven years had been more than enough to burn away any naive fantasies I once held.

"Aurora, are you really leaving?" my gallery manager asked in a hushed tone.

I smiled, my excuse already rehearsed.

"Yes. I'm taking Leo to Europe to visit his grandfather. It's a long overdue family reunion."

She nodded sympathetically.

"That's for the best. It's been exhausting, seeing you hold this family together on your own."

I let out a short, bitter laugh.

I wasn't an abandoned woman, but my reality was far worse.

My eyes began to sting, but I quickly masked the feeling with a practiced smile, refusing to let anyone see the cracks.

Just as I was finishing up at the gallery, Dorian and Cassandra walked into the family’s private club.

She glided ahead of him, a gentle smile gracing her lips.

He followed a step behind, his gaze glued to her, never straying for a second.

A Capo I knew nudged me and whispered, "Aurora, look at that. Our Underboss finally looks human."

I forced a smile, a storm raging inside me.

It took seven years for the man of stone to show a glimmer of warmth.

But, Dorian…

I could wait a lifetime, and he would never look at me the way he was looking at her.

As they passed, I couldn't stop myself. I called out.

"Dorian—"

Before I could finish, he shot me a look of pure ice.

"Miss Valenti. Is there something you need?"

His voice was arctic, each word a command to swallow my words and remember my place.

I lowered my head, forcing back the tears that burned my eyes.

"My apologies, Mr. Halle."

He gave a curt nod, his attention immediately snapping back to Cassandra, as if she were the only person in the world.

He was my husband.

The father of my child.

And here he was, flaunting his devotion to another woman right in front of my face.

The irony was a bitter pill to swallow.

A humorless laugh escaped my lips.

I had been about to tell him I was taking our son to Europe.

Now, it was clear he wouldn't even notice we were gone.

He didn't care about me, our child, or this sham of a marriage that only served to bind our families.

Back at my table, a call came through from my son's phone.

"Mamma, equestrian class ended early for the school awards ceremony tonight. Marcus is bringing me to the club."

My blood ran cold. I was already moving toward the exit before I could fully process what I was seeing.

Just then, I saw Dorian reach out and gently pin a custom brooch—the one engraved with the Halle family crest—onto Cassandra's collar.

That brooch should have been mine.

Not far away, at the entrance of the club, stood my son.

With his equestrian bag slung over his small shoulder, he stared, frozen, as his Uncle tenderly bestowed the family's honor upon a strange woman.

A gentleness and patience my son and I had never been shown.

I was about to rush to him when Dorian finally noticed him.

His body went rigid for a split second, and he snatched his hand back. But a moment later, he squared his shoulders, moved to shield Cassandra protectively, and walked straight past our son.

As if he didn't even recognize the little boy standing there.

My heart seized. I quickly took my son's hand and led him back to our table.

Before I could speak, his eyes turned red. He asked in a tiny voice, "Mamma, is she the new woman Uncle wants in our house?"

Words failed me. I could only nod, tears blurring my vision.

My son asked no more questions. He silently took out his tablet and began his homework.

But silent tears dripped onto the tablet screen.

I clutched him to my chest. He was my entire world.

Two chances left, Dorian.

Later, I took my son home.

On the way, he suddenly asked, "Mamma, can Uncle come to my awards ceremony tonight?"

In our seven years of marriage, Dorian had never once attended any of Leo’s school events.

Looking at his hopeful eyes, I couldn't say no. I texted Dorian.

[Leo has his awards ceremony tonight. Will you be free?]

As expected, my screen remained blank.

My son lowered his head, his little hands clutching his gear bag.

"He's not coming, is he?"

He forced a smile, trying to convince himself more than me. "It's okay. Uncle is busy. I understand."

His words landed like a lead weight in my chest.

Just as I was about to find something, anything, to say, my phone buzzed.

It was Dorian.

[I'm free. I'll be there.]

My own heart leaped with a shock of joy. I immediately turned the screen to my son.

"Leo, look! He's coming!"

He stared for a moment, then a grin of pure, unadulterated joy spread across his face.

Seven years. It was the first time Dorian had ever agreed to attend an event with us.

That one promise made my son bubble with excitement the entire way home.

He chattered on about how many times his teacher had praised him, the awards he’d won, and his high scores in the equestrian competition.

His eyes lit up. "Mamma, I'm this semester's MVP! They're going to announce it at the ceremony tonight!"

He hesitated for a moment before asking, "Mamma… if Uncle sees how well I'm doing, do you think he'll like me more?"

I froze, and the ache in my heart intensified. I sent a silent prayer into the universe, begging that Dorian wouldn't break his promise this time.

I just wanted to give my son this one memory, this one beautiful lie, before we disappeared.

The clock ticked on.

The awards ceremony was about to begin.

Dorian never showed.

But Cassandra posted a new photo to her social media.

In the photo, Dorian sat beside a strange little boy at a private range, patiently showing him how to hold a real gun.

Her caption read: [The future Don!]

I turned my head and looked into the living room.

My seven-year-old son was sitting quietly on the living room carpet, meticulously polishing the small wooden practice bow I’d bought him.

The same scene. The same age. The same desperate need for a father's love.

And his was never there.

Sensing my gaze, my son looked up. His small hands tightened on the bow as he spoke carefully.