No More Unloved Wife: The Mafia Queen Returns

Anne returned to the mansion when night had already swallowed the city.

The cold wind slipped through her pale brown hair, carrying with it the damp chill of evening that seeped through every layer of her clothes. The house before her, once called a home, now stood with its windows dark and silent, as if it too had forgotten the existence of the woman living inside.

She lingered at the doorstep, eyes lifting toward the second floor where Edric's room was. It was pitch dark, no sign of life, no trace of him returning.

Her heart sank, but her feet still moved forward out of habit.

Anne walked straight to the kitchen and began preparing dinner.

The scent of food slowly filled the air. Red wine–braised beef, cream of mushroom soup, a simple garden salad.

All the dishes he liked.

Or at least, the ones he once said he liked during that polite, distant dinner before their marriage. She still remembered every word from that conversation, the way they had both agreed to study each other's preferences, to play their roles well enough to deceive their families in this loveless marriage.

When the meal was ready, she set the table.

At eight o'clock, she texted him:

"Will you be home for dinner? I made your favorites."

The message stayed unread.

As always, he did not reply.

Anne clasped her hands together, staring at the glass of red wine before her. She wasn't sure if she was waiting for Edric or waiting for a sign that this marriage still existed.

Outside, the sound of traffic faded. Inside, the clock ticked steadily onward.

She ate alone in the lavish kitchen.

When she set her chopsticks down, her nose stung.

It wasn't the wine. It was the silence.

Silence was far more terrifying than rejection.

She cleared the table, washed the dishes, and dried each plate carefully. By the time she was done, the clock had passed eleven, and Edric still hadn't returned.

Anne climbed the stairs. Her steps stopped before the master bedroom door.

Since their wedding, Edric had never once entered this room. It had long become hers alone.

She knew the truth well. A marriage born of contract could never create closeness. What good ending could possibly come from such a union?

She opened the door softly, sat down on the bed, and wrapped the blanket around her body.

The sheets were cold, like the surface of a lake untouched by warmth.

She turned on the bedside lamp. The faint yellow glow spread across her pale face. The wedding photo still stood on the nightstand, two people smiling, pretending to be happy. Edric was looking into the camera; Anne was looking at him, her eyes filled with the hope of a good marriage.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

Anne's heart skipped. For a moment, she thought she had imagined it.

Then it rang again, urgent and persistent. She hurried downstairs and opened the door.

On the porch stood Edric, unsteady on