The Mafia King's Betrayed Wife

The vintage Cartier watch gleamed in the moonlight filtering through the bedroom windows. I'd spent three months' allowance on it, carefully selecting the perfect gift for our third wedding anniversary. The salesman had assured me Dante would love it—classic, elegant, understated luxury. Just like him.

My fingers trembled slightly as I clutched the gift box wrapped in silver paper. Three years of marriage to Dante Moretti. Three years of trying to be the perfect wife. Three years of hoping that someday, he would look at me the way he used to when we first met.

I smoothed down my dress—a simple cream silk that Dante had once complimented—and took a deep breath before pushing open our bedroom door.

The sound hit me first.

Moans. The rhythmic creaking of our bed. Sophia's voice, high and breathless, calling out encouragements that made my cheeks burn.

"Harder, Dante... Yes, just like that..."

My body froze in the doorway, the gift box suddenly heavy in my hands. Through the partially drawn curtains, I could see them—Dante's powerful body moving over Sophia's, her long legs wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

I must have made a sound because Dante turned his head, his eyes meeting mine over Sophia's shoulder. There was no surprise there. No guilt. No shame.

Just cold boredom.

He paused mid-thrust, looking at me as if I were an annoying interruption. "See what you need to see, then get out," he snarled, not even bothering to disentangle himself from Sophia. "We're busy."

Sophia's laugh cut through me like a knife. "Oh look, it's the little wife," she purred, her eyes gleaming with malicious triumph. "Did you bring us something, Isabella? Maybe some champagne to celebrate?"

My fingers went numb. The gift box slipped from my grasp, falling to the marble floor with a sickening crash. The vintage watch inside shattered, its delicate mechanism scattering across the floor like my dreams.

Dante pulled out of Sophia with a grunt of irritation and reached for his pants. "Clean that up before you go," he ordered, not looking at me as he dressed. "And don't forget to lock the door on your way out."

I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to breathe. The broken watch lay at my feet—a perfect metaphor for my marriage.

Dante lit a Cuban cigar, the smoke curling around his face as he walked toward me. He was fully dressed now, his expensive suit immaculate, as if nothing had happened.

"Three years," he said, blowing smoke directly into my face. I coughed, tears stinging my eyes from the acrid smell. "Three years and you still don't get it."

He grabbed my chin roughly, forcing me to look up at him. His eyes were cold, empty pits where I had once thought I'd seen love.

"You were always just a placeholder, Isabella," he said, his voice soft but cruel. "A womb for the Moretti heir. Nothing more."

I trembled under his grip, my voice