The Billionaire's Regret: Chasing His Ex-Wife

I was the canary in the gilded cage, the clean face of the O'Neill Syndicate. My husband, Cameron, was the Don, and I was supposed to be his cherished trophy.

But at my own art exhibition, the facade cracked. A notification lit up my phone: 'Watch your husband touch the woman he actually loves.'

It was Kacie, his legal 'fixer.' She smirked at me across the room, whispering that I was just a number on a ledger while she was the partner he couldn't afford to lose.

Things turned deadly when I went riding to clear my head. My saddle snapped mid-air. I hit the ground hard, shattering my leg. It wasn't an accident; the leather had been cleanly cut.

Lying in the hospital bed, I waited for my husband's rage to defend me. Instead, Cameron calmly peeled a pear and fed it to me.

"Leather wears out," he said dismissively. "Don't be paranoid."

That night, I heard him whispering with Kacie in the hallway. He knew she had sabotaged the saddle. He knew she could have killed me.

He laughed and said, "A cripple doesn't look good at galas. Keep her docile."

He chose his mistress over my life. He sacrificed my safety for his public image.

The tears stopped falling instantly. I didn't want an apology anymore.

I picked up the phone and called Sarah Vance, the city's most ruthless divorce attorney.

"I don't just want a divorce," I told her. "I want to take his empire, piece by piece."

Chapter 1

Aryana Mason POV:

I stood at the epicenter of the most prestigious gallery in New York, a statue in silk, surrounded by people drinking champagne bought with blood money.

The notification vibrated against my palm, lighting up the screen with a cruel demand: 'Turn around, Mrs. O'Neill. Watch your husband touch the woman he actually loves.'

I didn't want to turn.

I didn't want to see.

But in the mafia, ignorance isn't bliss. It is a liability. Usually a fatal one.

This exhibition was supposed to be my triumph.

The walls were lined with my soul, four years of my life bled onto canvas. Violent strokes of color, desperate pleas for understanding.

Yet, to everyone else in this room, I was just Aryana Mason, the trophy wife of Cameron O'Neill.

The Don of the O'Neill Syndicate.

I was the canary in the gilded cage, singing pretty songs while they conducted their dirty business in the shadows.

Brenton, the gallery manager, slid up to me with a smile that was too polished, too practiced.

"Mrs. O'Neill," he said, his voice dripping with false deference. "The sales are phenomenal. We have moved seventy percent of the inventory in the first hour."

He wasn't talking about art appreciation.

He was talking about laundering.

Every overpriced abstract piece sold was just another way to wash the Syndicate's cash.

I forced a smile, the muscles in my cheeks aching from the effort.

"That is wonderful, Brenton."

Then, the atmosphere shifted. The