Divorcing him: Mr billionaire doesn't want our baby

The wheels of the plane barely touched down at JFK when my phone blew up with over a dozen encrypted alerts.

I grabbed my luggage, walked down the jet bridge, and swiped open my screen. Plastered across the homepage was a big, bold red banner: [Congrats Don Valenti on your heavyweight gift from the Rossi Family!]

Below it was a receipt from a high-stakes underground poker game. The loser's signature: Julian Vance.

The stake: Chloe Rossi.

My secret boyfriend of three years—the guy who swore he missed me every single day while I was in Europe—had just traded me away like a chip the second I landed. He handed me over to Lucian Valenti, the top Mafia Don in New York.

Before I could even swallow the disgust, the encrypted chat room went wild.

Julian uploaded a photo of me himself.

It was my old profile picture from four years ago. One hundred and eighty pounds. Oversized gray sweats, a bloated face, and cowardly eyes.

Julian Vance: [Everyone, meet Miss Rossi, fresh back from her European studies! Don Valenti, if she's not heavy enough for you, I'll throw in two cases of fine wine.]

The mocking comments poured in like a tidal wave.

[Hahaha! Second-in-command, you're wild! Is this a gift or a prank?]

[European butter really plumped her up. She must be two hundred pounds by now!]

[Can the Don even sleep tonight? Or will this pig crush him to death?]

Ding.

A private message popped up from Julian. A voice note. His voice sounded hungover, fake, and callous:

"Chloe, listen to me. Put your European fairy tale aside for a second. Don Valenti was at the table tonight. If I didn't lose something major, the Rossi family wouldn't get the arms deal for next quarter. As the old Don's daughter, it's your honor to step up for the family. Be a good girl and show up at the club tomorrow night. Don't embarrass me."

I squeezed my phone, my knuckles turning white, my stomach churning.

Three years together. One year apart. In his eyes, I was just a stepping stone for his ladder.

Right then, someone started a high-stakes poll in the chat: [Betting time: Will Miss Rossi actually show her face at the club tomorrow night after a whole year?]

Julian dropped a public bet without hesitation: [30 grand says she stays home hiding in her hole.]

Next, Camilla—the city's infamous socialite—dropped a voice note into the group. Her tone was sweet, dripping with pure malice:

"Julian, how could you do that to little Chloe? Sure, she's a bit chubby and weak, but she's still the former Don's bloodline. Chloe, sweetie, if you're scared, just beg Julian. I'll ask the Don to go easy on you."

I stood in front of the giant mirror in the private lounge. I put on my sunglasses and slid off my heavy trench coat.

In the mirror stood a woman in a tight black slip dress. Sculpted collarbones, sharp shoulders, and a waist without a single drop of extra fat. Drop-dead gorgeous proportions.

That year in Europe, I trained four hours a day, transforming from 180 pounds to a stunning 105. I earned my title as a top jewelry designer from the Royal College of Art. I washed away all my fear and self-doubt.

I thought I came back to New York for love.

Turns out, I came back to crush a bastard's pride.

Looking at Julian's 30-thousand-dollar bet, I stayed silent. Inside, my heart turned to ice.

I opened the betting channel, linked my card, and dropped fifty thousand dollars on one option: [Shows up on time].

The chat room froze. Everyone lost their minds.

[Holy crap! Who just dropped fifty grand on her showing up?!]

I wiped away a stray tear. My fingers flew across the keyboard.

Amidst the chaotic laughter and taunts, I sent my very first message since coming home:

[I'll be there on time. See you all soon.]