The CEO's Billion-Dollar Divorce Regret

My husband, a mafia underboss and a brilliant neurosurgeon, left me to die on the side of a highway in the pouring rain. He had to rush to another woman, his true love, who'd had a minor car accident.

As I lay bleeding on a gurney after being hit by a truck, I learned I was eight weeks pregnant. But my hope was short-lived. The hospital was out of my blood type, and the only reserve had been set aside by my husband for his lover, just in case she had "post-op complications" from her cosmetic procedure.

Over the phone, I heard the nurse beg him. "This woman, and your... this baby will die!"

His reply was ice. "Isabella is my priority."

He let our child die to save her from a minor risk. The ledger where I'd been keeping score of his sins finally hit zero. I was free.

Two years later, I've built a new life, a new career, and found a new love with a man who cherishes me. I'm no longer the broken wife, but a celebrated architect, nominated for a prestigious award.

And tonight, at the awards ceremony, he found me. He got on his knees in the middle of the ballroom, begging for a second chance.

Chapter 1

Seraphina POV:

The day I started keeping score of my husband's sins was the day I realized my marriage was a contract, and my heart was the only asset I hadn't signed away.

It was hidden in the back of our shared walk-in closet, a space larger than my first apartment. Tucked behind a pair of winter boots I'd never worn in Boston, the black leather ledger was plain, severe, and utterly out of place among the silks and jewels that defined my life as Seraphina Rossi, wife to the Santos Underboss.

Dante was looking for his grandfather's cufflinks, the ones carved from old-world silver with the family crest. He moved through the rows of his tailored suits with the same lethal grace he used to command a room, his presence a low hum of power that vibrated through the floorboards.

His hands-the hands of a neurosurgeon, the hands that could kill a man as easily as they could save one-brushed past my things without a second glance.

Then he stopped.

He saw the box. It wasn't designer. It wasn't flashy. It was just a simple black box. His curiosity, a rare thing when directed at me, was piqued. He pulled it down, his movements economical and precise, and opened it.

The ledger sat inside.

He picked it up, his thumb tracing the unadorned cover. He opened it to the first page. My handwriting, the elegant script my mother had taught me, filled the space.

The Sinner's Ledger.

A flicker of something-amusement? annoyance?-crossed his face. He read the rules I'd written below the title.

Starting Score: 100.

Each act of dishonor, each betrayal, subtracts from the score.

When it hits zero, I am free.

He scoffed,