We’d been at war since the moment we exchanged vows. Eight years. Eight long, exhausting, miserable years.
Gio and I weren’t just a couple—everyone whispered we were a disaster masquerading as a marriage, a storm trapped in rings and vows. But now… it was ending. I could feel it in every nerve of my body.
I stared at the medical report clutched in my hands, the words blurring, dancing, then finally landing like a blade in my chest: Late-stage pancreatic cancer. A bitter smile twisted my lips. My phone erupted. Messages kept pouring in until the sound made my head throb.
[Liora! Check the group!]
[Is Gio out of his mind?!]
[He’s auctioning you! ONE NIGHT with another man!]
My hands went ice-cold. Gio Ramirez—the mafia boss of the Eastern Quarter, my husband, the man everyone feared—my tormentor, my curse.
I got into the car and drove like a woman racing toward destruction. By the time I arrived, the auction hall felt like a temple built on greed. Sharp suits, sIsolde gazes, women with smiles that could cut. Henchmen lined the walls like statues. Cameras clicked. Smoke curled through the air. And there he was. Gio. Front row, broad-shouldered, the very air around him heavy with command. A woman in a crimson dress sat at his side.
Isolde. My blood ran cold. The woman he had chosen because she resembled my sister, twisted enough to feel like theft, like a mockery.
One by one, my private photos flashed across the massive screens. The crowd leaned in, hungry, calculating.
“Twenty million.”
“Three.”
“One hundred million.”
A bald man rose, his voice booming. “One hundred fifty. I’ll pay one hundred fifty million for a night with Miss Liora.”
The room lifted phones and cameras. Perfume and ambition hung thick in the air.
I couldn’t move. My legs went weak. Gio didn’t even glance at me. He leaned back, expression unreadable, eyes half-lidded, watching as if observing some minor amusement.
“Deal,” he said casually.
The man grinned and stepped forward. “So, Boss Ramirez, tonight she’s mine?”
“Once the money clears,” Gio said with a smirk, “she belongs to you.”
And that… that was the sound of something inside me snapping.
The man reached for me. Instinct took over. I grabbed a wine bottle from the nearest table and smashed it against his skull. Glass shattered, blood splattered across the marble like some grotesque flower. Silence fell. My ears rang. The world narrowed to the heat of my own fear and fury.
“TOUCH ME AGAIN,” I hissed, voice shaking, “AND I WILL MAKE YOU WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN.”
No one moved.
Gio’s laughter cut through the tension, slow, deliberate. Applause that wasn’t applause. He strode toward me, moving through the crowd of men whose faces betrayed nothing. Close enough for me to taste whiskey and expensive cologne. He leaned close, his breath brushing my ear.
“If I can auction you once,” he whispered, “I can do it again. And again. Until there’s nothing left of you to sell.”
I tried to speak, words choking me. “W-why? Do you really hate me that much?”
“Hate?” He chuckled like a man long accustomed to hearing the dead speak. “You killed the two people I loved most. How do you think that feels?”
My heart seized. Pain shot through me like ice. The room tilted. Faces I’d known, men I’d smiled at, women who owed him everything—they all watched. They watched their Boss humiliate his wife. To see how far she could fall, how low a person could sink before becoming nothing more than a commodity.
And my mind wandered, back into memory…
Evander Ramirez. Gio’s twin, the gentler twin. The one who never raised his voice, whose smile could still the fiercest storm. He had always been patient with me, gifting chocolates in secret even when Gio forbade it. Falling for him had been effortless, inevitable.
Gio, on the other hand, was fire. Chaos incarnate. Cold eyes, cutting words, a man who could command a room without saying a word. Running the family’s mafia operations before he even hit twenty. Feared by everyone, even his own blood.
He liked my sister, Sabrina. Gentle, graceful, the kind of woman whose very presence could make dangerous men forget themselves. The four of us spent time together; I fought with Gio like sparks on gunpowder while Evander and Sabrina watched, calm, knowing what was coming.
Then it all collapsed. Evander took Sabrina’s hand and announced their engagement. The world shifted. Quietly, destructively.
That night, I locked myself away and wept until my ribs ached. The next morning, I ran from home, hoping distance could numb the heartbreak. Evander and Sabrina went after me. They never returned. The police called it an accident. But in the Ramirez family, “accidents” were never accidents.
For days I knelt beside their coffins, gasping for air through grief. I thought I would die there. And then Gio appeared.
He carried me when I fell, wiped my tears silently, stood by as I shattered. When nightmares clawed at me, he turned on the lights before I could scream. When I refused to eat, he forced me, threatening his men. He was cruel, controlling, but he stayed. And slowly, in the suffocating shadows, I began to cling to him. Mistaking his dominance for care. Mistaking control for love.
One night, he asked me to marry him. I froze. He smiled, but the warmth didn’t reach his eyes.
“You’ve started loving me too, haven’t you?” he said. “No one else is needed. I’ll take care of you… for the rest of your life.”
I said yes. Somewhere between grief and madness, I had begun to love him. He had rescued me when I was drowning, and I had mistaken his hold on me for salvation.
On our wedding day, I stood trembling, clutching my bouquet. A fragile hope flared in my chest. Evander would have wanted me to be happy.
Then the lights dimmed. The screen behind us flared to life. My private photos, displayed for everyone to see.
The room went quiet, then laughter erupted.
“Everyone,” Gio said, voice calm, almost teasing, “enjoy your wedding gift—Mrs. Ramirez’s private treasures.”
A chill ran through me. My body felt like it had turned to ice.
“Gio… what… what is this?” My voice barely left my throat, trembling.
He stepped down from the stage and gripped my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. “You really don’t know?” His voice was low, venomous. “You killed my twin. You killed Sabrina. Did you think I’d ever love you? I married you so you’d rot beside me, suffer forever by my side.”
Something inside me cracked. I laughed—bitter, jagged, and hollow—and, without thinking, I smashed the nearest champagne bottle against his head right there, in front of everyone.
After that night, our marriage became nothing more than punishment. That’s when I finally saw the truth. The man I had married wasn’t my savior. He was my jailer. Every time I tried to escape, every time I dared to whisper the word “divorce,” he’d punish me until my body forgot how to move and my voice forgot how to speak. In his world, love was not love. Love was possession. And I was his property. For eight years, we destroyed each other, piece by piece.
Now, the end was near.
I stared at the cancer report in my hands. “Gio,” I said quietly, voice almost swallowed by the pain in my chest, “can we… just stop fighting for once? Just for half a month? That’s all the time I have left anyway.”
He looked at me as if I’d cracked a joke. “Oh, now you’re lying? Do you really think death absolves you of what you owe me?”
I dropped my gaze. “In half a month, you’ll see. I’ll give you your answer then.”
He laughed, low and cruel, like a blade scraping stone. “Fine. Half a month. Let’s see how you plan to pay for two lives.”
Then, without another word, he took Isolde’s hand and strode out of the auction hall. He didn’t come home that night.
---
The next morning, every news outlet carried the same images: Gio Ramirez, the feared mafia lord of the Eastern Quarter, leaving a hotel hand-in-hand with Isolde. She wore white, a serene smile curving her lips the same way Sabrina’s once had.
Of course they would. Isolde had never been born looking like Sabrina. She had carved herself into that shape. Surgery. Every angle, every curve copied from photographs and gossip magazines.
Isolde had been my enemy back in school. She hated me, always wanted what I had: Gio, money, power, attention. I had tried once to tell Gio the truth. That Isolde wasn’t naturally like Sabrina; she had shaped herself to crawl into my sister’s shadow. He didn’t believe me.
“You’re jealous,” he said. “Pathetic, for measuring yourself against a dead woman.”
After that, I never spoke of it again.
I put my phone down and ate slowly, my stomach twisting, dull pain gnawing at me like it always did. Pain had become familiar.
The front door slammed. Gio entered, dark suit sharp, presence heavier than the air itself. His men waited outside, heads bowed, silent sentries.
He frowned when he saw me at the table. “Why are you still here?”
I stayed quiet.
He smirked, that cruel, calculated smirk. “Didn’t you say you’d give me your explanation in half a month? Why aren’t you preparing for that?”
Before I could respond, my stomach clenched violently. A sharp, metallic taste coated my tongue. I shoved my chair back and ran to the bathroom, barely reaching the sink before vomiting. And then blood came. Panic flared. I tried to hide it.
The maid’s gasp cut through the room. “Madam! Are you… pregnant?”
Gio’s expression shifted instantly. He stormed forward and gripped my wrist with a force that made me wince. “Pregnant?” His voice dropped low, hard, lethal. “Two months ago… that night. Don’t tell me this is your plan—to use a baby to make me forgive you?”
I pulled free. “I’m not pregnant! And even if I were, I’d never keep your child.”
He didn’t believe me. His jaw clenched tight. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”
“I said no!” I spat back, fear and fury tangled.
He grabbed my arm again, rougher this time. And in that moment, I realized it didn’t matter how little time I had left—Gio would never let me go in peace.
His brows drew together, that same dangerous look he gave men before ordering their execution. “Since when are you afraid of hospitals? What’s wrong with you today? Truly sick in the head.”
I laughed weakly. “Yeah… you finally got that right. I am sick.”
He studied me, cold and calculating. “Fine. Don’t want to go? Then don’t.” He turned to the maid, voice flat and deadly. “Bring the abortion pills.”
My heart dropped. “Gio, don’t—”
But the maid was already moving. She returned with a dark, thick, bitter-smelling liquid.
Gio grabbed my chin. “Drink.”
“I told you, I’m not pregnant!” I shouted, trying to push him away. He shoved the rim of the bowl to my lips, and the liquid burned as it slid down my throat before I could even spit it out.
The pain came instantly. Sharp. Twisting. Unbearable. My hands clutched my belly as sweat ran down my back. Then the metallic taste returned. Blood. Everywhere. My vision swirled. Darkness edged into my sight.
Distantly, I heard him shouting my name, muffled and underwater.
When I woke, I could barely move.
“She’s not pregnant,” a man said urgently. “Why did she take the pills? Her stomach is badly damaged. We need to pump it immediately.”
The cold tube slid down my throat. I tried to scream. Only a strangled sound emerged. The pain tore through me, inside and out. My stomach cramping, burning, twisting.
“Hang in there,” a nurse whispered near my ear. I bit my lip until I tasted blood and gripped the sheets like they were my lifeline.
By the time they rolled me out of the operating room, half-conscious, the lights above blurred into streaks. I heard the doctor’s voice again, cautious this time.
“Mr. Ramirez… your wife’s condition is far worse than we expected.”
A cold shiver ran through me, settling into my bones.
“What… what is worse?” Gio’s voice was sharp, annoyed. “It’s just some pill. You pumped her stomach, didn’t you? She’ll live.”
The doctor hesitated, uneasy. “It’s more than that… tests show signs of late-stage—”
“I already know,” I croaked, cutting him off. “Don’t bother telling him. He doesn’t care.”
I turned my head, unwilling to meet Gio’s eyes.
He let out a small, humorless laugh. “You’re right. I don’t care. As long as you’re alive, that’s all that matters.”
He started to leave, but his phone rang. Through the speaker, I could hear her voice—sweet, soft, the kind that made me want to tear something apart.
“Gio? Where are you? I miss you.”
He glanced at me, lips twitching into a faint, cold smile. “At the hospital. Come see me if you miss me so much.”
After he hung up, he turned back to me, smirking. “You wanted me around for the next two weeks, didn’t you? Looks like your wish is coming true.”
I didn’t answer. I just closed my eyes, my body shaking with exhaustion and fear.
A few minutes later, the door opened, and Isolde walked in. Her eyes froze when they landed on me in the bed, then she quickly lowered her gaze and moved straight to Gio.
He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “Come here,” he murmured, pressing his lips to hers, right in front of me.
She kissed him back, deeper, and the sound of it made my stomach twist sIsolde than any medicine could. Something inside me broke.
I grabbed the vase on the bedside table and hurled it at them. “Get out! Get the hell out of my room!” My voice cracked and rattled with rage.
The vase shattered against the wall. Gio turned quickly, using his arm to shield Isolde, but a shard still sliced across her cheek. A thin line of blood appeared.
She gasped and clutched him like a frightened child. “Gio… my face—it hurts…”
I watched him freeze. His expression shifted, panic flashing through him—the kind of desperate panic I had never been allowed to see.
He rushed to her, lifting her as if she might break. “Don’t touch it! You’ll make it worse!”
Then he barked orders at his guards. “Get the head of dermatology. No—call the top international specialists. Use the helicopter if you must! Now!”
The men scattered instantly, obedient as ever.
I leaned against the cold metal bedrail, watching him disappear down the hall with Isolde in his arms. His voice echoed behind him. “Make sure she heals clean. No scars. Do you hear me?”
The sound cut through me like a slow, grinding knife. I looked down at my hands. Tiny purple bruises dotted the backs, evidence of countless injections. My fingers shook, but I laughed anyway—quiet, dry, bitter.
Isolde was only a shadow of Sabrina. Just enough to make him lose his mind. And me, the woman he married, could bleed, scream, collapse in front of him—and he wouldn’t even blink.
My stomach twisted, sharp pain radiating through me. I curled up, waiting for it to pass, the thin hospital gown clinging to my sweat-slicked skin.
The days that followed blended into one another: pills, injections, unbearable pain. My body wasted away until my ribs jutted sharply under my skin. Hair fell in clumps. Even the nurses looked at me with quiet pity, sometimes slipping extra painkillers into my IV. I accepted nothing, thanked no one.
Then, one afternoon, the door slammed open. Gio stormed in, thunder incarnate.
Before I could even lift myself, he yanked me upright by the arm. “Isolde almost lost her face because of you!” His voice was icy, cutting through me. “Are you proud of yourself?”
I barely managed to stand. “It was just a scratch,” I whispered.
His grip tightened. “Shut up! You think you can hurt her and get away with it?”
He dragged me down the hall. My legs trembled, too weak to resist. Two guards followed close, silent and imposing.
When we reached the staircase, broken glass glinted on the steps. My chest dropped.
“Gio—what are you doing?”
He didn’t even glance at me. “You like causing pain, don’t you? Let’s see how it feels when it’s your turn.” He nodded to the guards. “Do it.”
I clutched the railing, breath ragged. “She’s not Sabrina! You’re losing your mind!”
Finally, he looked at me, eyes wild. “She doesn’t have to be Sabrina. She only has to look like her.”
“Gio—”
He gestured, and the guard shoved me hard.
Pain exploded through me as I hit the stairs. Glass tore into my skin. I couldn’t scream, only choke out sounds that tasted of blood. Each push, each fall, left me weaker, until I couldn’t move. My chest burned, my mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood. The world dissolved into pain and ringing.
When I awoke, I was back in the hospital, every inch of my body screaming. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt.
Outside the curtain, two nurses whispered.
“Miss Isolde’s fine already,” one said softly. “President Ramirez’s been by her side every day. Treats her like she’s made of glass.”
The other sighed. “And the woman in bed 302… look at her. Covered in bruises. No one even visits her. Isn’t she his real wife?”
“Shh, don’t speak so loud… you’ll get in trouble.”
Their voices faded. I closed my eyes. My throat ached, but no sound came. Tears slid down my face, soaking into the pillow.
I lingered there for days. Painkillers barely dulled the agony. The doctors could do nothing more.
So, one morning, I signed myself out.
