Failed Escape

Claire POV

That night, Aaron was different.

Wilder.

Harder.

The absolute ruler of the Moretti mafia empire drove me to the edge again and again, as if he meant to empty every ounce of strength he had inside me.

The air was thick with a heavy mix of desire, sweat, and aged Cohiba smoke.

The flames of passion had yet to cool on my skin.

He leaned down, his breath hot and ragged against my ear.

"Claire," he murmured, voice low and rough, "Vivian's due back in a few days."

For a heartbeat, my lungs froze.

But the stillness lasted only seconds. I forced my composure back.

The man who held the reins of the underworld, his power absolute.

A faint sheen of sweat clung to his sculpted chest, catching the light, radiating a raw, primal allure.

Tempting, yet dangerous.

But soon, all of it would be nothing to me.

Vivian was the daughter of Aaron's driver—the man who took a bullet for him and never made it home.

Since then, Aaron had taken special care of her—out of guilt, out of a sense of debt he could never repay.

She was just a minor actress, barely known beyond a few glossy magazines, yet Aaron insisted her reputation was untouchable.

He said she couldn't afford a single scandal, not even a whisper.

So every time she came back to the city, he would divorce me, so the world would see him as single, and her as innocent.

And when she left, he'd find his way back to me again, like nothing ever happened.

The first time he asked for a divorce, I completely broke down.

I screamed, cried, begged him to take it back.

But he didn't.

Later, I learned to accept it—or at least pretend I did.

I'd track where he was, show up at his favorite restaurants, hotels, even auctions, —pretending it was all just a coincidence—just for a chance to say a few words to him.

He laughed in my face for it.

He said it so calmly it almost sounded like a fact.

"Claire, you're pathetic. You can't live without me."

I wanted to hate him for it, but he was right.

His men mocked me too.

To them, I was nothing more than the woman Aaron kept leaving and taking back—a cheap, desperate gold digger who never learned her lesson.

But this time, I pushed him away while he was still inside me.

"Fine," I said,"We go through with the divorce tomorrow."

My legs were still trembling, but my voice was icy and firm.

The divorce papers already bore my signature. I handed them to him. Aaron blinked, caught off guard by my decisiveness.

Then, a faint smile curved at the corner of his mouth.

Satisfied, approving.

"Finally, you've learned to be good, Claire."

He signed his name and handed the papers back to me.

"Once she's gone, we'll remarry. Just a month, wait for me."

He cupped my chin, leaning in for a kiss.

But I turned my face away.

Normally, I'd make him sign it, in his role as the Moretti family boss, a promise etched in ink:

"I, Aaron Moretti, will remarry Claire on [date]."

But this time, I said nothing.

After all, in Aaron's eyes, Vivian's reputation mattered more than anything.

Every plea I made, every refusal, could only come across as cruel, even merciless, to his benefactor's daughter.

But Vivian never hid her hostility toward me.

Her possessiveness over Aaron was always laid bare, right in front of me.

If marriage was just a game he could play or discard at will, then I wasn't going to play anymore.

I stepped into the dressing room and packed my things.

In less than a quarter of an hour, I emerged, dragging my suitcase behind me.

Aaron looked a little taken aback.

"Claire... maybe I could have her stay at a hotel, and you wouldn't have to leave?"

"Forget it," I said. "She's more important than me."

I didn't want him to bear the burden of disappointing his benefactor.

I turned to leave, but Aaron grabbed my wrist.

"Since you've learned to be good, be good all the way. No more staged encounters. And keep our business out of the media."

I admitted it—I had thrown tantrums, done stupid things.

But the media's stakeout and exposure had nothing to do with me.

I'd lost count of how many times paparazzi had followed them to nightclub booths, hotel rooms, snapping intimate photos.

Vivian was always leaning on Aaron's shoulder, or drunk in his arms, her hand on his chest, posing so suggestively.

Every single time, the story hit the trending charts.

Vivian cried to clear her name, while all the blame fell on me—the "abandoned gold digger."

Her fans hurled the vilest insults, cyberbullying me endlessly.

Her "innocence" was built on trampling my reputation.

I tried to vent to Aaron, but he brushed me off.

"Who cares what they say? You've got me, that's enough."

Me?

Have him?

Those nights, I faced a storm of abuse alone, while he couldn't even be bothered to explain a single word.

Memories of the past stung, and filled me with disgust.

I shook off his hand and turned toward the door.

"Claire—" Aaron called from behind.

I stopped, but didn't look back.

"The 20th of next month. Don't forget, that's when we remarry."

I gave a small wave over my shoulder and pushed the door open.

The heavy gate slammed shut behind me.

The 20th?

My phone lit up with my flight itinerary.

And sure enough... the departure was set for the 20th.