LOGINOne immigration application ended my marriage— and erased me from my husband’s world forever. I was Arabella Ashford— the wife of the man everyone wanted to marry. An Italian mafia heir—Born into power, wealth, and fear. A bloodline successor watched by international law enforcement, forbidden to cross borders, permanently barred from U.S. territory. They said he adored me— built me a private estate so I’d never hear the city, sent me flowers for no reason, just to make me smile, remembered every little thing I liked, every habit and quirk, No one saw the truth. And while the world called him perfect— he was putting another woman in my place, and another life in her womb. So I made my choice. I filed for permanent residency overseas. With that one signature, I erased myself from his world. From that moment on, he would never find me again. This was the price of his betrayal. He didn’t realize I was losing him that day. When he discovered the woman he betrayed was already beyond his reach. That was when he lost everything. He gave up his position. Walked away from his inheritance. Turned his back on a throne men would kill for— all to cross an ocean he was never allowed to enter.
View MoreArabella POVBy the seventh month after I arrived in the United States, a letter finally found its way to me from back home.By then, I was already living comfortably.The copyright money from the book I’d written years ago—back when I still believed love could save anything—had matured into something solid. Enough to buy an entire building on one of New York’s busiest streets.I kept the third floor and above for myself.The first floor I leased to a small newspaper office.The second became a neighborhood shop.It was clean. Quiet. Anonymous.Exactly what I needed.Most mornings, my life was painfully simple. I watered the plants on my balcony, drank coffee, skimmed the papers. No bodyguards. No whispered warnings. No one watching my every breath.I took a sip of coffee and frowned.Even after all this time, I still couldn’t get used to the bitterness.I set the cup down on the wrought-iron table and opened the letter.It began with polite greetings—how are you, are you well, do you
I didn’t look at Ava again.In that moment, she stopped mattering.I turned and walked out of the hospital room. The corridor lights were cold and blinding, my footsteps echoing through the private wing. I went straight back to my office and shut the door behind me, sealing myself inside the silence.On my desk, the photo was still there.Arabella and me.She was leaning into my arms, head slightly tilted, smiling softly. Her eyes were calm, devoted—like the entire world began and ended with me.Something pierced straight through my chest.I picked up the frame and held it against my body, staring at her face for a long time. Long enough for the night sky outside the window to fade into gray dawn.I reached for the desk phone.The first call went to one of her friends.“Have you heard from her?”A pause. Then hesitation.“No.”I hung up.The second call. The third.Her old classmates. Women she’d met through charity events. People who had once shared dinners and polite smiles with us.
That night, I drank more than I should have.Arabella hated the smell of alcohol.She always had.So I decided to sleep in the guest room—just one night.Let the scent fade before I went back to our bedroom.That was the plan.When I woke up, half-drunk and disoriented, Ava was beside me.Naked.Too close.For a second, my mind went blank.Then the fear hit.And after that—rage.I hadn’t expected someone from the countryside, someone who was family, to dare cross that line.But what terrified me more was Arabella finding out.The thought of her pain—of her leaving—was unbearable.My first instinct was simple.End it.End her.She dropped to her knees before I could speak, shaking, crying, begging.Then my parents called.Another reminder.Another thinly veiled demand.An heir.Arabella couldn’t have children.I sat in that room all night, chain-smoking, staring at the wall.Somewhere before dawn, I looked at Ava’s face again.She was Arabella’s cousin.Blood-related.If she carried my
I noticed something else inside the folder.Behind the signed papers, there were several loose sheets.Blank at first glance.I pulled them out, already irritated, ready to throw them away—Then the handwriting stopped me.Arabella’s.Clean. Precise. Calm.Just like her.She had always been like that—no matter how bad things got, she never raised her voice. Never lost control.Yet these pages were different.The paper was punctured in several places, as if the pen had been pressed down too hard.Hard enough to tear through.There were no accusations.No questions.Only facts.Locations.Dates.Times.How many times.Every place Ava and I had crossed the line.Every time I had lied to my wife.Tucked between the pages was a small recording device.I pressed play.Ava’s voice filled the silence—soft, smug, intimate—confessing everything she had done behind Arabella’s back.Arabella’s voice never appeared.She hadn’t confronted.She hadn’t begged.She hadn’t asked why.She had simply coll


















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