Mr. Wilder wife is a madwoman

When Adriano Morelli realized I hadn’t submitted a single household request in three days, he called me himself for the first time in months.

“Serafina,” he said, his voice smooth and patient, “the clinic has been cleared. Your file is back on priority. See? When you stop making things difficult and learn how this family works, I make sure you’re taken care of.”

He always sounded the gentlest when he was reminding me who held the power.

What he didn’t know was that by the time his name lit up my screen, the divorce papers were already drafted.

From the outside, I had everything a woman could want: a guarded penthouse, a driver on call, designer clothes, and the last name of one of the most feared men in the city.

But almost none of it was mine.

The cards were monitored. Cash had to be approved. Staff took Viviana Costa’s orders before they ever listened to me. Even the wardrobe budget, my schedule, and access to the family office all ran through her hands.

Adriano called it convenience.

Three days ago, I was rushed into a private clinic, blood soaking through my dress, while a doctor told me there was still a chance to save the baby if the emergency deposit was paid immediately.

I called Adriano until my hands shook.

Viviana stalled the transfer.

First there was no direct authorization. Then the amount was too large. Then Adriano was in a meeting and could not be disturbed over something that might not be serious.

By the time the money came through, it was too late.

The baby was gone.

I had stayed with Adriano for two reasons: I loved him, and I believed that when it truly mattered, he would choose me.

I was wrong about both.

Our child died first.

My marriage died with it.

...

When I walked out of Saint Mariel Women’s Center, the doctor’s words still rang in my ears.

“We lost the last chance to keep the pregnancy. There’s no point coming back for this one.”

By the time I arrived at Morelli Headquarters, Adriano was in his private office, signing a document Viviana Costa had just placed in front of him.

When I told him I wanted a divorce, he didn’t even look up at first. He only let out a short laugh.

“What is this now? Are you angry because I didn’t come home for dinner last night?” His tone turned faintly reproving. “Serafina, don’t say things like that. It’s childish.”

“I’m not joking,” I said. “I want a divorce.”

That finally made him lift his head. He rose and came toward me, calm, almost indulgent, as though I were simply being difficult again.

When he reached for my hand, I stepped back before he could touch me. His hand lingered in the air for a moment; a frown flickered across his face, then disappeared.

“I know you’re upset about the clinic,” he said. “But I stopped that because I didn’t want you jumping into every expensive procedure they suggested. Panic isn’t a plan.”

He glanced at Viviana, who stood quietly by the desk, polished and composed, the picture of loyal efficiency.

“She was following my instructions. How could you argue with her at the billing office in front of staff? I restored your access yesterday, so if this is about the money, it’s already resolved.”

Before I could answer, he checked his watch.

“I have people waiting on me. I run an entire organization, Serafina. I can’t keep wasting time on scenes like this.”

“I’ll come by tonight. I’ll bring dessert from Belladonna. Be good and wait for me.”

He was sure I would stay. Sure that a little tenderness would make me forgive everything.

For three years, he had been right. Even when he left me standing in the rain because Viviana needed him somewhere else, all it took was one quiet line—She works for me. Don’t make this ugly—and I would swallow the hurt and pretend I understood.

Now, dessert meant nothing. Whether he had reopened the transfer meant nothing.

If Adriano had listened to me three days ago, I might still have been foolish enough to stay.

That day, I had called him from the hospital corridor and begged him not to hang up before I finished speaking. But Viviana’s voice reached him first.

“Boss, I think Mrs. Morelli misunderstood me. I only told the clinic the amount was too large to release without a full breakdown. If she truly needs it immediately, I can force it through, even if it breaks procedure. I’m only worried the finance board will start asking questions later. I was stricter because I thought she should learn how things are handled in this family.”

That was enough for him.

“Serafina,” Adriano had said, already impatient, “do you hear how considerate she’s being? Why can’t you learn from her instead of panicking every time something goes wrong? Do what Viviana says. Once the paperwork is complete, we’ll talk.”

It was always the same whenever I needed anything. Talk to Viviana. Follow Viviana’s arrangements. Do whatever Viviana tells you.

I was Adriano Morelli’s wife, yet I had less authority in that world than the woman who managed his schedule. Even for formal dinners, political fundraisers, and private family gatherings where I was expected to stand beside him, I had to request my dresses and jewelry through Viviana, and every time she found a reason to send me back empty-handed. The shade wasn’t Adriano’s preference. The necklace was too flashy. The request had come too late. The better pieces had already been allocated.

So I would end up beside Adriano in something outdated or poorly fitted, while he leaned in close and murmured, almost gently, “Serafina, you represent me. Try not to embarrass the family.”

As if the failure were mine.

The truth was simpler: I could not even handle the smallest things because Adriano had placed everything in Viviana’s hands, then acted as though I was incompetent for depending on her. He knew the pregnancy had been unstable from the beginning. He knew the doctors had warned us that any delay could be dangerous. He knew I had been in and out of appointments for weeks.

And still, when I needed him most, he gave me the same answer he always did:

Go through Viviana.