He Gave Her My Wedding, so I Gave Him a Divorce

Outside the fitting room, Sofia had chosen a wedding dress similar to mine.

She adjusted the skirt in front of the mirror and turned to Damian.

“What do you think?”

Damian studied her for a moment.

“You look beautiful.”

The consultant glanced through the gap in my curtain with a smile.

“Ms. Valenti, would you like to come out and see yours properly? That dress suits you.”

I lowered my eyes to the curve of my five-month pregnancy.

“No, thank you.”

Seven years ago, when Damian and I signed our marriage papers, there had been no wedding and no Donna ceremony publicly recognizing me as the woman beside the head of the Valenti family.

He had promised we would have one someday.

Now, the first time I had actually put on a wedding dress, Damian was outside helping Sofia prepare for her Donna ceremony.

I changed back into my clothes just as my phone rang.

Damian.

“Elena, have you had lunch?”

I could still hear a consultant discussing veils in the background.

“I’m sorry I can’t spend our anniversary with you today. Something came up with Sofia. I’ll be home tonight.”

I pulled back the curtain.

Across the showroom, Sofia stood in front of a mirror while Damian took a veil from the consultant beside her.

“So this is the emergency? Helping Sofia prepare for the Donna ceremony?”

The line went quiet.

“Where are you?”

“When is the ceremony?”

Damian avoided the question for a moment before answering.

“Next month.”

“And there’ll be a wedding?”

This pause lasted longer.

“Yes.”

I looked at the dress I had just taken off.

Damian moved somewhere quieter before lowering his voice.

“Marco died saving my life. The Bellinis entrusted Sofia to me. They want her to have a secure position within the Valenti family, and I gave them my word.”

“So you gave her the position of Donna.”

“It’s a public title. Our marriage is real. Legally, you’re Mrs. Valenti.”

His tone remained calm, as if that settled everything.

“You know who I love. A ceremony doesn’t change that.”

Not long ago, one of his friends had asked him the same question.

I was his wife. If all of New York saw Sofia as the Valenti Donna, what did that make me?

Damian’s answer had been simple. I had the real marriage, and I knew where his heart was.

So, of course, I would understand.

After seven years, he had grown used to my understanding.

“Damian, did you ever consider that I might care?”

Silence stretched between us.

“Elena, I made a promise to the Bellinis. I can’t pretend Marco’s sacrifice never happened.”

Weariness entered his voice.

“Don’t make one ceremony more important than it is.”

I had no interest in arguing anymore.

“I understand.”

Damian exhaled, clearly relieved.

“I knew you would.”

I ended the call.

When I left the bridal boutique, Sofia had already changed into another gown. Damian stood beside her while the designer discussed alterations, and neither of them noticed me walk past.

I went straight to my mother’s house.

After hearing everything, she was quiet for a long time.

“You’ve decided?”

“Yes.”

I looked down at my wedding ring.

“I’m divorcing Damian.”

She didn’t try to change my mind. She only took my hand.

“If you’re sure, then do it. I’m with you.”

On the way home, I saw Sofia’s latest post.

The photo showed a fully furnished apartment. Men’s and women’s shoes stood together near the entrance, and two place settings waited on the dining table.

The caption read:

Finally home.

Several people in the comments were already calling her Donna Valenti.

Damian corrected no one.

He only replied:

Welcome home.

I recognized the apartment immediately.

It was one floor below the home Damian and I shared.

He didn’t come back that night.

At three in the morning, I woke and instinctively reached toward his side of the bed. My fingers met cold sheets.

I sat in the darkness for a while before calling him.

He answered after several rings, his voice thick with sleep.

“Elena?”

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

I looked at the empty space beside me and tightened my grip on the phone.

“Damian.”

“Yeah?”

“Which home?”