I Signed Her Name Instead

Twenty years of marriage ended with my murder. My husband, Marco Corvini, and my son were the ones to carry it out. Of course, he’d already devoured my family’s empire. All for Isabella Falcone, the princess of our rivals.I opened my eyes. I was back. Back in the church on the day of my blood oath with Marco, the day after my parents were buried.“In the name of Romano and Corvini, we witness this blood oath. An oath to bind two empires. In blood and in law.” The priest's voice boomed through the cavernous halls of Holy Name Cathedral in Chicago.My fiancé, Marco, stood beside me. He held the ceremonial dagger, a family heirloom. But his eyes were locked on Isabella Falcone in the back pew.Just like the last time.She wore a blood-red silk dress, a victor's smirk plastered on her face. I recognized the sapphire necklace. The showstopper from the last Sotheby’s auction. Looks like Marco spared no expense to keep her happy.She knew Marco loved her. And me? I was just the sacrif

Over the next few days, I started secretly selling off my luxuries.Limited-edition bags, diamond necklaces, priceless pieces of art.Everything my mother had picked out for me.Now, they were my ticket out of this hell.I moved the money through an offshore company into a Swiss bank account.Marco was oblivious.He was too busy planning a “honeymoon” with Isabella.On the third morning, Marco knocked on my door.“Samara, I need to talk to you.”His voice was a little softer than before, but his eyes were still empty.I opened the door. He was holding a check.“This is for you,” he said, handing it to me. “The trust fund was used, but I’m not leaving you with nothing.”I glanced at the number.One million dollars.A generous compensation for my mother’s fifty-million-dollar legacy.The old me would have cried with gratitude, thinking he was planning for our future.The new me wanted to laugh in his face.“Thank you for your generosity, Marco.”I took the check. My calm surprised him.“

I walked out of the manor and didn't look back.I was done with that place. Done with the pain.Six hours later, I was at an exit at LAX.The California sun was bright and warm. A world away from the cold gray of Chicago.I dragged my suitcase and disappeared into the crowd.No one would come looking for me this time.In Marco's mind, I was already dead.Three months of grinding. Now, my gallery was open for business."Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the opening of 'Rebirth' Gallery."I stood in the most lavish art space in Beverly Hills, looking out at a crowd of L.A.'s elite.Every painting here was my choice—from the edgy work of new artists to priceless master collections."Samara, this place is stunning," said Jennifer Walsh, a Hollywood producer, holding a glass of champagne. "You have an incredible eye.""Thank you," I smiled. "I believe art should give people hope. Not take it away."For the last three months, I'd buried myself in work.Up at seven a.m., asleep at two a.m.Eve

"Miss Romano, Art Weekly wants to do a feature story on you."It was the week before Christmas, and my gallery was the center of the L.A. art world.In just four months, 'Rebirth' had cleared twenty million dollars in sales.I had finally proven it. I could do more than just survive without Marco Corvini. I could thrive."Tell them I'm free next week," I told Sarah.As I was arranging decorations for the Christmas exhibition, Sarah ran over, looking pale."Boss, bad news," she said. "Marco Corvini landed in L.A. yesterday."The crystal ornament in my hand almost slipped."What?""He and his pregnant wife are checked into the Beverly Hills Hotel," Sarah went on. "Word is, the Corvini family is in deep trouble back in Chicago."My heart started to pound.Marco was in L.A. With Isabella."What kind of trouble?" I asked.Sarah pulled up a news feed on her tablet."The FBI raided several key Corvini properties. Word is, someone on the inside flipped."I looked at the picture of Marco's grim

On Christmas morning, I woke to the gentle sound of the waves.Sunlight streamed through the windows, warm and comforting.It was the quietest Christmas I'd had in years.No family politics, no fake pleasantries. Just pure peace.I walked out onto the terrace to find a beautiful breakfast laid out on the table.Fresh strawberries, warm croissants, and a pot of fragrant Blue Mountain coffee."Good morning, Miss Romano."The housekeeper, Elena, a graceful Italian woman in her fifties, approached."Mr. Dante asked that we prepare breakfast for you.""Where is he?" I asked."Handling some urgent business," Elena smiled. "He said he didn't want to disturb you. He wanted you to sleep in."A warmth spread through my chest.The Marco from my past life never considered my feelings. He'd wake me in the middle of the night for so-called "family business."Dante, on the other hand, was protecting even my sleep.In the afternoon, a black Maserati pulled up to the estate.Dante got out, holding seve