He Wanted Obedience. I Chose Divorce.

“Mrs. Valenti, this episode was triggered by severe emotional stress.”

The doctor studied my test results with a serious expression.

“You already had a gastric ulcer, and you drank alcohol mixed with blood orange juice on an empty stomach. Avoid alcohol and anything that aggravates the ulcer until it heals. Another serious bleed could require emergency surgery.”

He set the chart aside.

“We’re keeping you overnight for observation. Please ask a family member to come.”

I said nothing.

I had spent thirty-nine straight days in Europe negotiating the Orion Corridor contract. That afternoon, I returned to New York after finalizing the framework for an agreement worth one billion dollars.

Adrian threw a celebration for me that evening.

He personally handed me a cocktail.

I had finished half of it when Sofia appeared behind me and asked with a smile, “How does the blood orange taste?”

I stared at Adrian in disbelief.

A faint smile still lingered on his face, as if he expected me to be angry for a few minutes and then forgive him.

“I didn’t make you eat a blood orange. There was only a little juice in the drink. You were enjoying it until Sofia told you, which proves she was right. You should have dealt with this problem years ago.”

I threw the rest of the drink in his face and walked out.

Half an hour later, I vomited blood in the restroom.

After the doctor left, the room fell quiet. I picked up my phone and opened the encrypted conversation pinned at the top of the screen. I had just typed Adrian’s name when I noticed that he had changed his profile picture.

The Valenti crest was gone.

In its place was a sliced blood orange.

I stared at the image for several seconds before his call came through.

“I’m already home,” Adrian said coldly. “Where are you?”

In the past, I would have softened my voice before explaining why I had left. I would have tried to calm him down, even when he was the one who had hurt me.

Tonight, I did not know what to say.

“The hospital.”

Silence followed, and when Adrian spoke again, the coldness had disappeared from his voice.

“Which hospital?”

“St. Vincent’s.”

“Stay there. I’m coming.”

I did not argue.

Time passed slowly. The doctor checked on me three times, but Adrian never appeared.

Before I fell asleep, I looked at my phone one last time and saw that Sofia had posted an update.

“Whenever danger finds me, the Don always comes in person.”

In the photograph, her palm was wrapped in gauze. Adrian stood in front of her with his head lowered as he secured the bandage.

According to Sofia’s post, an unfamiliar car had followed her after she left the celebration. She had panicked, shattered a glass, and cut her hand. Adrian suspected that a rival family was testing the Valentis, so he personally took her to one of the family’s safe houses.

It was the kind of matter a Don needed to handle.

He still could have sent me a message.

I closed the photograph and stopped waiting.

By the following morning, Adrian still had not called.

The doctor discharged me after a final examination, and I returned home alone.

We had bought the Upper East Side townhouse during the fifth year of our marriage. Seven years earlier, before Adrian officially took control of the Valenti family, we had lived in a cramped apartment in Brooklyn. Some nights, one plate of pasta had been all we could afford for dinner.

Then Adrian became Don, and Valenti Holdings gained control of several major warehousing and shipping routes in New York.

Our homes became larger while the number of meals we shared became smaller.

I sat in the living room and opened the draft divorce agreement my attorney had sent me.

I had just finished reading the first page when I heard the front door.

Adrian entered the living room with a faint trace of rose perfume clinging to his black coat.

His skin was sensitive, and he had always hated perfume. During our years together, I had been careful about everything I used, including shampoo.

Apparently, his rules had only applied to me.

Adrian stopped when he saw me.

“Sofia was followed last night. I had to determine whether a rival family was responsible.”

“All right.”

“She hurt her hand. I took her to a safe house, and the investigation ended too late for me to leave.”

I closed the divorce agreement and used my tablet to revoke one of the overseas business authorizations under my control.

“I understand.”

Adrian frowned.

He had clearly prepared himself for accusations and tears. He probably had an apology ready, followed by jewelry or another expensive gesture meant to end the argument. My calm response left him with nothing to answer.

After a moment, he came closer.

“What did the doctor say?”

“That I need to rest.”

“Then hand your work to someone else.”

He spoke as if the cocktail that had sent me to the hospital had nothing to do with him.

“Sofia was trying to help you move beyond the past,” he continued. “Her method was inappropriate, and I already told her that. You also need to understand that the Valenti Don’s wife cannot spend her entire life controlled by a piece of fruit.”

I looked up at him.

“So you still think she was right?”

“I said her method was wrong.”

He touched my cheek, and his tone softened.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

Adrian did love me.

He would arrange the best doctors when I was ill, and he would make anyone who deliberately harmed me pay for it. Yet once he decided something was good for me, my consent stopped mattering.

I moved his hand away and returned my attention to the documents on my tablet.

Adrian watched me for several seconds.

“I’m taking Sofia to Paris,” he said.

My finger paused against the screen.

“When?”

“This afternoon. The European Port Alliance arranged a private dinner at the last minute, and the Moretti family will be there. She knows the people involved.”

“All right.”

“You can come with us.”

On my birthday seven years ago, Adrian had taken me to a cheap photography studio. We had posed in front of a painted backdrop of the Eiffel Tower.

He had no money then, but he promised that one day he would take me to the real Paris and recreate the photograph beneath the tower.

I brought it up several times after Valenti Holdings became successful. Adrian always said the family was in a critical stage of expansion and that a Don could not leave New York whenever he pleased.

Now Sofia wanted to go, and suddenly he had time.

I opened another client file without changing my tone.

“Three people would be crowded. I’m not interested.”

Adrian seemed relieved.

“That’s probably better. Your stomach needs time to recover.”

He turned toward the stairs to pack. Halfway there, he stopped.

“Valenti Holdings is holding a press conference for the Orion Corridor next Monday. I’ve invited the media and representatives from several allied families.”

I did not respond.

“You’ve always wanted the board to acknowledge your position and your contribution publicly,” he continued. “I’ll introduce you myself at the press conference. Sofia won’t interfere again.”

This was the compensation he had chosen for me.

One overdue public introduction was supposed to erase the blood orange, the hospital, and the entire night he had left me waiting.

Adrian looked at me as though the matter had already been settled.

“Be ready.”