Chapter 1

My husband, Don Cassian Marchetti, transferred the Marchetti family's quarterly dividend into his widowed sister-in-law Camille's private account. Again.

And I didn't even have a penny to repair my mother's grave.

When Cassian walked through the bedroom door that evening, I hurled the crystal tumbler at the wall behind him.

"Celeste—"

"Sixty-eight thousand! To that woman again! For what—her 'treatment'? Her 'recovery'? Which Swiss spa is she bleeding us dry from this time?"

Cassian didn't flinch. He simply loosened his tie, jaw tightening with that particular brand of cold disdain I'd grown so familiar with over the past three years.

"Are you done?"

"Never! Not until you stop funneling our money—to your brother's widow like she's your goddamn kept woman!"

Something shifted behind his eyes. Then he gave a scornful laugh.

When he spoke, his voice was ice.

"You want to talk about propriety, Celeste? About shame?"

"Tell me," he continued, each word a scalpel, "who was it that crawled into my bed at just nineteen? Who spread her legs before there was a ring on her finger, got herself knocked up, and then begged me to find a clinic that wouldn't ask questions?"

I went still.

Everything—the rage, the wine-buzz, the trembling—froze solid in my chest.

I still remember that winter when I was nineteen. The private clinic in Queens, the blood that wouldn't stop. Cassian—barely twenty-one, not yet hardened—holding me against his chest, tears streaming into my hair.

"I'm sorry. God, Cece, I'm so sorry. I'll spend my whole life making this up to you. I swear I will never let anyone hurt you again."

And now, at twenty-eight, Don of the crumbling Marchetti empire, he'd weaponized my deepest wound to defend another woman.

He didn't know.

In that moment, standing there with his lip curled in disgust, my husband didn't know that I was carrying again. Eight weeks. The child I'd wanted for six years.

And with those words, that child died right alongside whatever remained of my heart.

The housekeeper, Maria, stood frozen by the door. Behind her, I could see Cassian's underboss Enzo and two of the household staff, faces slack with shock.

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

My face must have gone white. I couldn't form words. My tongue was a dead thing behind my teeth.

And Cassian looked briefly uncomfortable. He rubbed his temple, turning away. Immediately, Enzo stepped in with that practiced smoothness.

"Cece, listen—it wasn't his idea. Camille showed up at the office, on her knees, sobbing. Said she'd die without the medication. What was he supposed to do?"

Maria chimed in: "It's almost Christmas, dear. Couples fight. You'll sort it out by morning."

I used to believe that too.

That Cassian only pitied Camille. A young widow with a sick daughter—how could I not understand his sympathy?

Until the compassion turned into flying her to specialists across three continents. Until he started bringing her to family gatherings on his arm while I sat home with a fever. Until someone photographed them hugging each other on his yacht in Portofino—and the pictures circulated through every allied family in the Northeast.

Our first real war over it nearly brought down the house. He swore it was nothing. He signed a written agreement: no more contact.

But then—a strand of auburn hair on his collar. Her perfume lingering in his car.

And excuse after excuse until his patience simply ran out and he stopped pretending to care whether I believed him.

And I became what he accused me of being: paranoid, bitter, suffocating.

Now I was done suffocating.

"We're finished," my voice sounded far away. "Let's divorce."

Cassian stared at me like I'd spoken in tongues.

"Over money? Over sixty-eight grand? Jesus Christ, Celeste, get a grip."

"We've been together for eleven years."

Even now. He believed we were unbreakable.

Then the door swung open. One of Camille's maids stood there trembling.

"Mr. Marchetti, sir—Mrs. Camille Marchetti is having chest pains again. She's asking for you. Please come quick."

I watched my husband grab his coat without a backward glance, without a single hesitation, and disappear down the hallway toward her.

The door slammed shut behind him.

I stood alone in our bedroom, wine and glass at my feet, and laughed until I cried.