Death Of A Marriage, Birth Of Revenge

My husband watched as my skin melted, scalded by boiling soup, yet his hands were busy comforting my attacker. Five years of marriage, built on a foundation of my family's power, crumbled with a single, brutal act of betrayal. He bought me off with a penthouse and a trust fund, but I tore out my IV and threw his charity back in his face.

It was our fifth anniversary, but my husband, Ethan, remained distant, avoiding any talk of Chicago or the mafia protection my family once offered him. He then pushed a black velvet box across the table.

Inside was a Separation and Property Division Agreement, not a diamond. He told me to sign for Ilene's security, offering millions. When I refused, Ilene hurled boiling soup. Ethan shielded her, not me, as the scalding liquid melted my dress.

With second-degree burns, he blamed me, ordering me from our home for Ilene’s comfort. My family saved him, yet he sacrificed my body and marriage for another woman.

The love I felt turned to ash. What kind of debt demanded my flesh and marriage?

I ripped the IV from my arm, hurling his "charity" keys back. My diamond ring placed on the agreement, I walked away. From today on, Ethan, you and I are dead to each other.

Chapter 1

Aurora POV:

I raised the crystal goblet, gently swirling the Burgundy wine, and looked across the flickering candlelight at my husband.

I kept my posture perfectly straight, suppressing the wildness of a Chicago mafia daughter beneath the elegant facade of a high-society wife. Today was our fifth anniversary. I expected him to acknowledge it.

Ethan kept his head down, staring at his phone screen. His brows were slightly furrowed as his fingers moved rapidly, replying to a message.

"Do you remember Chicago?" I asked softly, trying to break the suffocating silence. "Five years ago today. The rain was just as heavy."

Ethan didn't look up. He just let out a dismissive hum and placed his phone face down on the table.

He always avoided talking about Chicago. It was a reminder of the time his power was at its weakest, the time he desperately needed the protection of my family's syndicate to survive.

A waiter approached in a crisp uniform, pushing a silver cart toward our table, ready to serve the final main course.

Ethan raised his hand. With a single, cold gesture, he stopped the waiter in his tracks and signaled for everyone to leave the private dining room.

The heavy oak doors were pulled shut. The room fell into absolute silence, leaving only the faint, crackling sound of the burning candles.

My heart rate picked up slightly. A dark gleam of expectation flickered in my eyes.

Ethan reached into the inner pocket of his custom-tailored suit and pulled out a black velvet box.

He pushed it across the center of the table, the dark fabric pressing down on the pristine white Hermes tablecloth.

I took a deep breath. I