Chapter 3

Jason was a man of his word.

Three days later, my father's company was out of danger. The seized shipments cleared customs. The federal investigation was dropped.

That afternoon, my phone buzzed.

Jason's iMessage:

*Coming to see you tonight. What do you feel like eating?*

I didn't reply.

For the past two weeks, he'd texted every day. I answered maybe one in ten.

When he came to the apartment, I let him in but wouldn't let him stay the night.

He never got angry. Before leaving, it was always the same line:

"Get some rest. Call the guards if you need anything."

Like a caring boyfriend. Like the perfect lover. As if the man who'd leveraged my family against me had never existed.

Then one day, my phone exploded.

Texts first—hundreds of messages flooding in, all vicious:

"Homewrecker, go die!"

"Ivy League degree and you're still a dirty side piece? You sure you didn't sleep your way into Yale?"

"Wrecking the Capone-Black marriage—enjoy getting dumped in the ocean to feed the fish! A slut like you deserves to die a thousand times over!"

Then someone tagged me on Twitter. I tapped through to a gossip account's exposé post. My photo was the header image.

The headline read:

**EXPOSED: Ivy League PhD Clings to Mafia Don, Gets Pregnant to Force Donna Out**

The article claimed I'd known about Jason and Sofia's engagement all along but refused to let go, using my pregnancy to pressure him into divorce.

It said Sofia had been so distraught she'd been hospitalized. It said the apartment I lived in was bought by Jason.

Every single comment was people cursing me out.

My hands started shaking.

I scrolled further—my father's shipping company address had been doxxed. Someone was calling for people to "go throw blood on their docks and smash their cargo ships."

My stomach lurched violently. I barely made it to the toilet before I was retching until the world went black.

I knew. This was Sofia Black's doing.

When the vomiting stopped, I sat on the floor. The marble tiles were cold, but my mind had never been clearer.

I went back to the living room and opened the cloud-synced photo album on my laptop.

April 2018, outside the Yale library—Jason with his arm around me, smiling warm and bright. The day he finally won me over.

December 2019, my birthday—he'd bought me a cake by the sea.

2020—our first apartment together. Him in the kitchen making curry beef pasta.

2021—he came home with me to meet my parents.

2023—he'd taken a bullet for the previous Don, earned his way to Underboss. Shirtless, bandages wrapped around his wounds, pulling me close and flashing a peace sign at the camera.

2024—he'd won a hundred-million-dollar pink diamond necklace at a black-market auction and clasped it around my neck. I'd snuck a photo of his profile.

Every single photo had an unalterable timestamp.

Every single one proved that we'd been in love for six years before 2024.

Jason and Black's marriage certificate was dated this March.

I picked nine timestamped photos and posted them in a grid, with one line of text:

*Who's really the one who came between someone else's relationship? See for yourselves.*

I tossed my phone on the couch.

When I picked it up again, that post had been shared over ten thousand times. Public opinion had flipped completely:

"Wait—according to this timeline, they were together for six years. Sofia's the one who used her family's power to force her way in!"

"Desperate to be the other woman, then has the nerve to smear the real girlfriend? This is what Black family class looks like?"

The comments section erupted. Sofia Black's reputation cratered overnight. She was being mocked as a clown who'd bullied her way into a marriage through family connections.

Within half an hour, #SofiaIsTheHomewrecker was trending number one on Twitter.

My phone rang. Mom.

"Alice! I saw everything! Are you okay?" Her voice was urgent, aching with concern.

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Who does that Sofia woman think she is? How dare she bully my daughter?!"

I blinked—my mother never swore.

"Mom, are you really okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Her voice was full of fire. "Just now a bunch of dockworkers who owe your father favors showed up at the office with flowers—said something about 'standing with Alice against cyberbullying'!"

I held the phone, tears rolling down one by one.

"Alice, I almost misjudged you. I thought you'd really gone and become someone's mistress…"

She didn't finish.

"It's okay, Mom."