"You used to leave work at the office, no matter how busy things got," I said lightly.

Domenico's fingers froze over the screen.

For a split second, guilt flashed across his face before he quickly masked it with a smile.

"Things have just been hectic lately, babe," he said. "It'll settle down soon, I promise."

Then he softened his voice.

"Go get some rest, okay?"

As I walked past him toward the bedroom, my eyes drifted briefly to his phone.

A crying-face emoji filled the screen.

A message from another woman.

Another lie.

But I said nothing.

I simply returned to the bedroom and sat quietly on the edge of the bed.

After a moment, I picked up my phone and logged into a burner account.

Moving through the endless web of wives, girlfriends, and Family associates, I searched until I found exactly what I was looking for.

Ginevra Santoro.

A barely-known actress.

A nightclub singer with no Family connections and no real influence.

Two hours earlier, she had uploaded a new post.

In the photo, she proudly displayed a pair of unreleased heels from Maison Seraphine.

The very same brand Domenico had handed over to me tonight.

The brand that carried my name.

The comments underneath were ruthless.

People mocked her, accusing her of wearing cheap counterfeits and pretending to live a lifestyle she couldn't afford.

In response, Ginevra insisted that she was actually the brand's soon-to-be-announced spokesperson.

According to her, her boyfriend had personally secured the endorsement deal.

The contract was already finalized.

Even the heels she was wearing had been gifted by the fashion house itself.

Nobody believed her.

After all, it wasn't unusual for someone in her position to purchase replicas.

But Ginevra stubbornly argued with every critic.

I scrolled through the comments one by one until a newly created account caught my attention.

The account claimed to work for Maison Seraphine.

> I know her boyfriend. He's one of the people making decisions. He personally approved her as the face of the brand. The photoshoot starts tomorrow.

Almost immediately, skeptical replies flooded in.

> She's barely an up-and-coming actress. What kind of boyfriend could pull that off?

> What does she think she is? The next Serafina Moretti?

> Nice try. Creating a fake account to defend yourself is pathetic.

> If there isn't a photoshoot tomorrow, prepare to embarrass yourself.

> And good luck explaining how you leaked unreleased designs.

Less than a minute later, the account posted a photograph.

A signed endorsement contract.

Then came another comment.

> You'll see for yourselves tomorrow.

I stared at the screen for a long time before finally locking my phone.

A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes.

I pressed my fingers against my temples and slowly stood.

As I walked toward the bathroom, a familiar voice drifted through the partially open study door.

The study was lined with expensive books nobody ever read and framed photographs of dead men nobody ever mentioned.

Domenico sounded furious.

"What is the photoshoot team doing?"

"If they can't handle something this simple, replace them."

"I told you to prioritize the shoot."

"Do I need to repeat myself?"

"Drop everything else."

"And if those materials aren't ready by tomorrow, none of you are coming back. Is that clear?"

I closed my eyes.

The owner of the account defending Ginevra online...

Was my husband.

In that moment, it felt as though every ounce of strength had been drained from my body.

I leaned against the wall.

Silent tears slipped down my cheeks.

One after another.

When Domenico noticed me standing there, I was still trembling.

Still desperately trying to hold myself together.

The color instantly drained from his face.

He rushed toward me, panic flooding his expression.

Without even stopping to put on shoes, he scooped me into his arms as if he were preparing to carry me straight to the emergency room.

I steadied myself against the doorframe and shook my head.

"It... it's okay."

My voice cracked.

"I just read something sad."

"A novel."

"I got emotional."

"Don't worry about me."

"You should finish your work."

His expression softened immediately.

Pressing his forehead against mine, he rubbed his nose gently against my cheek.

"Then stop reading sad stories."

"Haven't I told you before?"

"I want to make you the happiest woman in the world."

He smiled.

"Those heartbreaks in novels aren't real."

"Our happiness is."

Not real?

Then why did it hurt so much just to breathe?

Perhaps seeing me upset made him feel closer to me.

Or perhaps it simply eased his guilt.

Either way, his phone wouldn't stop vibrating.

Message after message.

Call after call.

The constant buzzing filled the silence between us.

Eventually, he offered me an awkward smile.

"Just a little more work."

"I promise."

"I'm almost done."

I didn't answer.

Barefoot, I turned around and walked back to the bedroom alone.

By midnight, I heard the front door close.

A quiet sound.

But loud enough to shatter whatever hope remained.

He had broken his promise again.

Leaving the estate under the cover of darkness.

Past the wrought-iron gates.

Past the guards stationed at the checkpoint, who undoubtedly recorded the time of his departure but would never dare ask where the Don was headed.

I didn't need to ask either.

I already knew.

Silently, I slipped on a black coat and followed him.

The night air was cold.

The compound was eerily quiet.

Long shadows stretched across the gravel roads beneath the security lights.

Somewhere beyond the walls, a dog barked once before falling silent.

After several minutes, Domenico finally stopped.

In front of an apartment building.

A residence located within Moretti territory.

Close enough to reach at a moment's notice.

Far enough to pretend it was separate.

I watched from the darkness as he rang the doorbell.

Moments later, the door opened.

Ginevra Santoro stood there.

She wore a skin-tight black bodysuit that left almost nothing to the imagination.

A dazzling smile spread across her face the instant she saw him.

Then she stepped forward.

One hand pressed against my husband's chest.

Her body nearly touching his.

"Thank you for speaking up for me, Mr. Moretti."

Her voice was sweet.

Playful.

Dangerously intimate.

"I owed you a favor."

"So I prepared a little gift for you."

She tilted her head and smiled knowingly.

"But..."

"You'll have to unwrap it yourself."

Ginevra took my husband's hand and slowly guided it toward the ribbon tied around her waist.

Her intentions couldn't have been more obvious.

I felt like I was drowning.

No matter how desperately I gasped for air, I couldn't seem to breathe.

I watched them disappear inside together, wrapped up in each other as though the rest of the world no longer existed.

And then I ran.

Like a coward.

Straight back to the estate.

That night, I didn't sleep.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my eyes burning until the first pale light of dawn crept through the curtains.

Only then did Domenico finally call.

"Babe, are you awake?"

His voice sounded warm.

Familiar.

As though nothing had happened.

"Business ran late last night. I didn't want to wake you, so I stayed at the club."

"How about I pick you up today?"

"We'll go shopping."

"Anything you want is on me."

I closed my eyes.

How could a man move so effortlessly between two women?

How could he spend the night with another woman...

And still speak to me with the same tenderness he always had?

As if every word were sincere.

As if he still loved me.

I splashed cold water on my face and forced myself to regain control.

By the time I came downstairs, he was already waiting outside.

The black sedan sat at the front entrance.

The driver held the rear door open.

A soldier stood nearby with his hands folded respectfully in front of him.

The moment Domenico saw me, concern filled his face.

The sight of my exhaustion seemed to genuinely pain him.

"Babe, why do you look so tired?"

"Didn't you sleep?"

His brows knitted together.

Then he immediately changed his mind.

"You know what?"

"Forget shopping."

"I'll just have everything delivered here."

"You can stay home, relax, and take your time choosing whatever you like."

I bit down lightly on my lip.

For once, I refused his thoughtful offer.

This was the last gift he would ever give me.

And I wanted to see exactly what kind of surprise he had prepared.

At the boutique on Via Condotti, one of the Moretti Family's most prestigious legitimate businesses, Domenico settled me onto a velvet sofa before immediately beginning to fuss over me.

He disappeared and returned with a milkshake.

Then tea.

Then coffee.

Then juice.

Every drink he brought was something I used to love.

But today, I couldn't bring myself to take a single sip.

When he noticed, he didn't get irritated.

Instead, he blamed himself.

"It's my fault."

"I shouldn't have stayed out so late last night."

"You hate being alone when it's cold."

"And I left you by yourself."

His expression was full of guilt.

"Punish me if you want, babe."

"I deserve it."

Before I could react, he grabbed my hand and tried to press it against his cheek.

As though he wanted me to slap him.

As though that would somehow make things right.

But I gently pulled away.

"I'm fine."

"I just don't feel like drinking."

Tomasso had been watching from the doorway the entire time.

Leaning casually against the frame with his arms crossed, he finally laughed.

"Damn, Don Moretti."

"I've never seen anyone spoil his wife the way you do."

"No wonder you run the entire Eastern Seaboard."

He offered Domenico a cigarette.

But Domenico simply smiled and shook his head.

"I don't smoke."

"My wife hates the smell."

"It bothers her."

Tomasso awkwardly withdrew the cigarette.

"Fair enough."

"I'll have the shoes brought over."

No matter who was watching.

No matter what people thought.

Domenico never cared when it came to making me happy.

The employees looked at us with obvious envy.

Some sighed dreamily.

Others exchanged knowing smiles.

To them, we looked like characters straight out of a romance novel.

A handsome husband with prematurely silvered hair.

A wife he adored beyond reason.

None of them knew who he truly was.

They saw a devoted husband.

Not the Don of the Moretti Family.

Soon, the shoes arrived.

Box after box.

Pair after pair.

Without hesitation, Domenico rolled up his sleeves and knelt in front of me.

Personally.

Patiently.

He helped me try on every single pair.

One by one.

Each time he looked up at me, his eyes softened.

"You look beautiful."

Then another pair.

"Perfect."

Then another.

"Honestly, should we just buy them all?"

His smile widened.

"You could wear a different pair every hour."

Just then, his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen.

And something changed.

It was subtle.

Almost imperceptible.

But I noticed it.

His expression shifted.

His thumb brushed briefly along the edge of his jaw beneath his ear—a tiny habit he had whenever he was caught off guard.

Without explanation, he stood up and walked outside to answer the call.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

Too many.

Yet he never returned.

Eventually, I stood.

Slipped back into my original shoes.

And quietly followed him outside.

The moment he saw me, he instinctively tilted his phone away and covered part of the screen with his hand.

"Babe?"

"What are you doing out here?"

"It's cold."

"Go back inside."

"Try on some more shoes."

"I'll be right back."

I shook my head.

"It's fine."

"You're busy."

"And I'm not feeling well."

"I'm heading home."

I left before he had a chance to stop me.

But the second I turned the corner, I stopped.

Hidden between the boutique and the neighboring storefront, I pressed myself against the cold stone wall and watched through the glass.

A few minutes later, Domenico ended the call.

He handed the shoes to one of the employees.

Then instructed them to deliver everything directly to the photography studio.

My heart sank.

The photography studio.

Not the estate.

Not our home.

Then, right there in front of everyone, Ginevra appeared.

And my husband wrapped his arms around her.

Before I could process what I was seeing, he kissed her.

Not a brief kiss.

Not an accidental one.

A real kiss.

Deep.

Passionate.

Possessive.

Five long minutes.

Five endless minutes.

I stood frozen.

Unable to look away.

Unable to move.

When they finally separated, Domenico even reached down and playfully squeezed her ass.

The employees nearby didn't react.

Not even slightly.

No surprise.

No discomfort.

No shock.

Nothing.

As if this was completely normal.

As if they'd seen it countless times before.

And suddenly, I understood.

I was the only one who didn't know.

Every soldier.

Every associate.

Every employee on the Moretti payroll.

Every shop girl and receptionist.

They had all known about my husband's affair long before I did.

The Donna of the Moretti Family had been the last person to find out.

My wedding ring dug painfully into my palm.

Only then did I realize I had been twisting it unconsciously.

Slowly, I stopped.

The photoshoot began shortly afterward.

And Domenico stayed.

Watching his mistress the entire time.

His eyes never left her.

Beside him, Tomasso cracked his knuckles one by one.

Pinky.

Ring finger.

Middle finger.

Index.

Thumb.

Then he smirked knowingly.

"Damn."

"She looks incredible."

He glanced at Domenico.

"Where the hell did you find a gem like that?"

He let out a scoff, his eyes trailing lazily down Ginevra's thigh, still exposed below her over-the-knee boots.

"That is impressive? The best part — oh, you haven't even seen it yet."

Tomasso smacked his lips, clearly envious.

"When I hit your level, I'm keeping a hundred just like her!"

"But hey, your wife isn't bad either. Even without makeup, she's a stunner."

The second Tomasso mentioned me, Domenico's face hardened.

"Don't even think about touching my wife. Unless you're ready to lose everything."

The shift was instant. Not a raised voice. Not a threat you could point to in a courtroom. Just something in the air that changed, the way a room goes cold when a gun clears a holster. Tomasso backtracked fast, nodding and stammering apologies, swearing on his mother he'd make sure I'd never find out anything.

But at this point, I don't care anymore.

I turned and bolted, desperate to get out of there, only to bump straight into one of the Family's delivery runners rushing in with garment boxes.

"Mrs. Moretti—"

"Shh!" I cut him off. "Don't tell anyone you saw me. Unless you want to explain to the Don why you couldn't keep your mouth shut."

I didn't even know how I got back home. When I finally looked up, I was already standing outside the door of the Moretti estate.

One of my shoes was missing, and I looked like a mess.

When I checked the time, I realized eight hours had gone by since the shoot started.

I drove to the closest store outside Family territory and cleared the shelves of every bottle of alcohol they had.

After paying, I stepped outside — and as if fate wasn't done screwing with me, I ran into my husband's mistress.

The way her eyes lit up when she saw me. That smug little gleam. Her fingers drifted to the hollow of her throat, touching the pendant that hung there, the one I recognized because the jeweler who made it had offered to show me the design first.

But her words? Sickly sweet.

"Oh my god, you're Mrs. Moretti, right? I've been such a huge admirer of yours for ages! I even sent a gift when you and the Don had your wedding — the one every Boss on the Eastern Seaboard attended! I can't believe we live in the same neighborhood!"

"You know, I used to be really jealous of your love story. I mean, who wouldn't dream of a husband like yours? And guess what? My dream came true!"

She giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear in this fake, innocent way.

Her voice dropped to this conspiratorial whisper like we were best friends sharing secrets.

"My apartment here? It's a gift from him — basically just like a little 'hello' present, you know? Right here in Moretti territory, under all those soldiers' noses."

"Anyway, hey, can I get your number? We should totally get together sometime — maybe go to the spa, something fun!"

I didn't want to let her see me break, so I kept my face blank and gave her my number.

After adding me, she hooked her arm through mine like we were best friends. As if it was a joke, I walked into the neighborhood together with my husband's mistress, past the gate where the soldiers on watch recognized my face and straightened, past the manicured hedges that bordered the compound, her arm threaded through mine like a knife dressed in silk.

She kept chattering in my ear, talking about how her boyfriend gave her an apartment, a front business of her own, and even scripts written just for her.

I just nodded along. Finally, at my front door, I managed to escape, muttering a quick goodbye before shutting myself inside.

The second I was alone, I cracked open a few bottles and drank, hoping to disappear into oblivion. The house was enormous and silent. The kind of silence that only the Don's residence achieves — thick walls, soundproofed rooms, a world designed so that nothing ugly is ever heard.

But it didn't take long before my phone buzzed with a message. From her.

[Hey, Serafina, do you like roses? Today's shoot went so well, and my boyfriend says he's buying out every rose in the city to celebrate! That's a lot, right? I can send some to you if you'd like!]

I stared at that shameless message for a moment before deleting it without replying.

By the time Domenico got home, I'd already had quite a bit to drink.

He froze in the doorway, his eyes wide. He didn't even take off his shoes, just crossed the marble foyer and went straight to the kitchen to make hangover soup for me.

I grabbed his hand as he passed by and pulled him toward me like a brat.

"Babe, I want roses. Can you get me some? Like right now."

He let out a chuckle. But his eyes — they were empty.

"Why the sudden interest in flowers? Can I get them for you tomorrow, babe? I've got so much to handle tonight, you know?"

"Did you drink too much?"

Tears welled up in my eyes as I shook my head bitterly.

"You can't, can you? Oh well, never mind. Go ahead, finish your work."

"Babe, what's wrong? Didn't you sleep well last night? How about you head to bed early tonight? I'll make you soup for your hangover first, but after that, I've really got to get back."

He kept asking me what was wrong, but I didn't say another word.

What was the point? Nothing I said would change a damn thing. He was the Don. He did what he wanted. He always had.

He watched me sip the hangover soup he made, and then just like that, he left me alone without a word. The front door clicked shut. An engine turned over in the drive. And then nothing but that terrible, soundproofed silence again, pressing against every wall of the house he'd built around me.