I Was Never His Real Wife

My little brother’s heart monitor was screaming its final warning. I called my husband, Dante Volkov, the ruthless underworld king whose life I’d saved years ago. He had promised to send his elite medical team.

“I’m handling an emergency,” he snapped, then hung up. An hour later, my brother was dead.

I found out what Dante’s “emergency” was from his mistress’s social media. He had sent his team of world-class surgeons to deliver her cat’s kittens. My brother died for a litter of cats.

When Dante finally called, he didn't even apologize. I could hear her voice in the background, asking him to come back to bed. He even forgot my brother was dead, offering to buy him a new toy to replace the one his mistress deliberately crushed.

This was the man who had promised to protect me, to make my high school tormentors pay. Now, he was holding that very tormentor, Seraphina, in his arms. Then came the final blow: a call from the clerk's office revealed our seven-year marriage was a sham. The certificate was a forgery.

I was never his wife. I was just a possession he was tired of. After he left me to die in a car crash for Seraphina, I made one call. I texted a rival mob heir I hadn't spoken to in years: "I need to disappear. I'm calling it in."

Chapter 1

Elara POV:

The ninety-ninth time I called my husband, my little brother’s heart monitor was screaming its final warning.

“He’s crashing,” I told the nurse, my voice a raw, broken thing. “Please, you have to do something.”

She just shook her head, her face a mask of pity. “We don’t have the equipment, Ms. Moretti. Or the specialists. You said your husband’s team was on its way.”

I nodded numbly, hitting redial. My husband, Dante Volkov. The gutter wolf I’d found bleeding out in an alley seven years ago. The man I’d nursed back to health in my tiny slum apartment. The man who clawed his way to the top of New York’s underworld, building his own brutal organization from scratch. He was a *Boss*, a king, and his private medical team was the best in the country—a resource only a man like him could command.

And they were supposed to be here.

The call connected. “What?” Dante’s voice was sharp, impatient.

“It’s Luca,” I begged, the words tearing from my throat. “He’s dying, Dante. Where is the team? You promised.”

“I’m handling an emergency,” he clipped out. “They’re tied up.”

“What emergency could be more important than this?” I cried, my gaze fixed on the jagged red line on Luca’s monitor. It was faltering, dipping dangerously low.

“Stop being so dramatic, Elara.” He sighed, a sound of pure annoyance. Then he hung up.

I stared at the dead screen. He’d hung up. I tried to call back. The call wouldn’t go through. He’d blocked my number.

A long, single tone cut through the air.

Flat.

Final.

The