The Mistress's Name On His Heart

On my wedding night, while unbuttoning my new husband's shirt, I found a fresh tattoo over his heart.

A bold, jagged letter 'C'.

It stood for Caren—my best friend, the girl I had raised from the servant's quarters like a sister.

Jameson was the Prince of Philadelphia, and our marriage was a blood pact between mafia families.

But looking at that ink, I realized he had already signed a different contract with the help.

The betrayal didn't stop at infidelity.

Weeks later, Caren crashed a family dinner with a "peace offering"—a cake laced with peanuts.

She knew I was deathly allergic.