A Wife's Tears: Billionaire Scoundrel Husband's Regrets

I was late to work again. Having a four-year-old isn’t easy.

This morning, Leon woke up sick, burning with a fever. I couldn’t take him to daycare or just leave him alone, so I had to ask my neighbour, Tracy, for help. She agreed after I promised to pay her with my tips. I handed her some money, gave Leon one last worried glance, and a kiss and then ran out the door.

The minute I stepped into the restaurant, I knew something was different today. There was a tension in the air, an unease that I couldn’t quite place. I barely made it to the back room to change into my uniform before the manager appeared.

"Where have you been, Ariella?" he barked.

He never yelled. He was always composed, even under pressure. But today, he seemed agitated—nervous, even.

I swallowed hard.

It hadn’t been easy to land this job. This wasn’t just any restaurant—it was an exclusive, high-end place, the kind where getting hired was nearly impossible. The only reason I was here was because of Damien. I had met him in difficult circumstances and saved him on the street one day, and when he asked what he could do in return, I asked for a job.

I only finished high school and barely completed a year and a half of college before I had to drop out. S I have had to take whatever work I could find—two, sometimes three jobs a day—just to take care of Leon.

It’s true what they say: from riches to nothing. That is the definition of my story.

And that’s why I can’t afford to lose this job

"Hurry up, Ariella. Today is important, and we can’t afford to mess this up," Damien says, his tone sharp. "I need you in my office. Pronto."

"Yes, Damien. I promise I’ll be quick."

"And look presentable," he adds before turning on his heel and walking away.

I change in record time, run my fingers through my hair, and dab on just enough makeup to look polished. Then, I rush to his office, my heart hammering.

When I step in, I find him deep in conversation with two men I’ve never seen before. Their faces are unreadable. They exchange a few last words before nodding at Damien and leaving.

"Close the door," he instructs the second they’re gone.

I do as he says, and he gets straight to the point. "I need you to serve the upstairs VIP room."

My brows knit together. I’ve worked here long enough, but I’ve never been allowed up there. "The exclusive VIP room?"

"Yeah," he says briskly. "And before you ask—don’t ask anything else. Just do your job."

Something about his voice is off. Agitated. Rushed. "People seem tense today," I point out.

"That’s none of your concern. I need you to focus. You’re good at what you do, you worked here long enough, you look the part, and you’ve got the guts. But listen to me carefully, Ariella." His voice drops. "When you go up there, you’re a statue. A ghost."

A chill runs down my spine.

"You do not listen to what they say. You do not make eye contact. You don’t see anyone. You don’t hear anything. You take orders. You serve. You leave. Do you understand?"

I swallow hard. "Yes, Damien. I understand."

"Good. Gina was handling it, but she had a mental breakdown. So you’ll cover for her." His gaze is firm. "Be strong, Ariella."

I nod and walk out, my nerves tightening with every step toward the VIP room.

When I open the door, my breath catches.

The room is full. Men sit sprawled on the luxurious sofas, women draped over them, their hands roaming freely. Some are talking in hushed voices. Some are kissing. The air is thick with something I can’t quite name—but I recognize this world.

I used to be in it. And I swore I’d never come back.

I remind myself of Damien’s instructions. You don’t see anything. You don’t hear anything.

Just serve and leave.

I move through the room, collecting empty bottles and glasses, and replacing them with fresh ones. I don’t make eye contact. I don’t linger. But I know who they are. I catch glimpses of tattoos, the suits, the presence—they scream Mafia.

I take orders, keeping my head down, pretending not to hear the murmurs, the deals being made in hushed voices.

Then I feel it. A hand on my ass.

Instinct takes over. I slap it away without thinking.

Laughter erupts. I keep my face blank, pretending it didn’t happen. I’ve already taken all the orders, so I turn to leave, but before I can, a hand grips my wrist.

"Where are you running off to, sweet thing?" A low voice murmurs, dripping with amusement. "Don’t you want to have a good time?"

I don’t make eye contact. I keep my voice neutral. "I’ll just get your orders." I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.

He pulls out a wad of cash, peels off several bills, and tosses them onto my chest.

"This money could feed you for a year," he smirks. "So what do you say? Why don’t we take this to the bathroom and get it over with quickly?"

My stomach turns, but I force my expression to stay blank. I need this job. I just have to endure this for a few hours.

"Thank you, but I’m working right now," I say as steadily as I can.

Another man grabs my arm, trying to pull me onto his lap. I struggle against him, my pulse spiking. Laughter rings in my ears, the air thick with amusement at my humiliation.

Then—

"Stop!"

The single word cuts through the noise, deep and commanding. Strong.

The room stills. The laughter dies instantly.

And for the first time, I lift my eyes. They land on the man at the head of the table.

Oh my God. I freeze.

I never thought—not in a million years—that my past would catch up to me. That I would ever see him again. Not so soon. Not here.

But here he is.

I stand there, paralyzed, my mind blank. I don’t know what to do. What to say.

The man gripping my wrist chuckles, oblivious to my turmoil.

"What is it, Don? I’m just having a little fun. It’s not like I’m forcing her or anything. She wants it."

Another voice joins in, mocking. "Yeah, what’s the problem? Is she one of your whore or something?"

I flinch at the word.

And then—

"As a matter of fact," he says, his voice smooth, cold. "She is."

My breath catches.

Shock holds me in place, but he isn’t done. He leans forward slightly, his eyes locking onto mine.

"She is my little toy," he continues. "And I don’t like other people playing with my toys."

The grip on my wrist vanishes as if I’ve turned to fire. The man stumbles back, hands raised, his face paling.

"I—I’m sorry, Don. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I didn’t know—"

Don.

My heart slams against my ribs. He’s the Don?

My pulse roars in my ears. How? What happened to his father? How did he become the Don?

A low snicker cuts through my racing thoughts. "Your pretty little Russian wife wouldn’t like that."