My Don Chose The Dancer Over His Bleeding Fiancé

My fiancé took a bullet for a dancer. He let me take the next one. So, after our sixth anniversary, I decided to leave for good.

The moment the bullet tore across my left shoulder, the burning pain nearly brought me to my knees.

But I didn't fall.

I stared at Colter.

He became her human shield. His body took the hit.

In the chaos, he didn't even look at me. He was too busy checking on Mia. "Are you okay? Where are you hurt?"

Mia trembled in his arms, pointing to a scratch a paper cut would be ashamed of. She sobbed, "My... my arm..."

His men cleared the scene. Only then did he seem to remember I existed.

He walked over. His eyes flickered to my bloody shoulder for less than a second.

"It's a scratch," he said, his voice flat. "You're not dying. Get the family doctor to look at it."

Then he scooped up the still-sobbing Mia and strode toward his armored car. "I'm taking her to the hospital."

My heart hurt more than my shoulder.

Just yesterday, I’d raised hell about Mia for the third time.

He’d had enough. He grabbed my chin and reminded me he was the Don. I was only the future Donna. A title, not a throne. He told me to learn my place.

Now I knew my place.

Six years of love and loyalty. Worth less than a dancer's tears.

The next day, Instagram's algorithm did its job. I saw Mia's picture.

She was in a top-floor suite at a private hospital. Colter was leaning over her, tending to that "tiny" scratch.

The angle of the photo caught his profile. The look in his eyes was tender. A look I hadn't seen in a long time.

The caption: "My Hero."

I stared at it, my face blank. I liked the post.

Then, I opened my encrypted laptop.

For six years, I was the Giordano family's "trophy fiancée." No one knew my talent wasn't art restoration. It was laundering money. Making the dirtiest cash clean.

This was Plan B. I’d been preparing it for three years, once naive enough to think I'd never need it.

I hit Enter.

Fifteen million dollars vanished from Colter's private accounts.

My severance package.

Next, I dialed the encrypted number.

"The offer from the Falcones? I'm taking it."

Just as I finished, the door was thrown open.

Colter was back. He brought the night's chill with him. And the sickly sweet scent of Mia's perfume.

"Zora." He walked straight to the bar and poured himself a whiskey, not even sparing me a glance. "Come here. Patch me up."

He sank into the sofa and ripped open his shirt sleeve, revealing an ugly gash he'd gotten protecting Mia.

This wasn't a request. It was a test.

He was testing my limits. Seeing if I would swallow his betrayal, just like all the times before.

I stood in the shadows of the staircase, watching him.

"No."

Colter froze, the glass halfway to his lips.

He looked up, his eyes wide with disbelief, like he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world. "What did you say?"

"I said no," I repeated, my voice clear and cold. "If you need a nurse, call your little songbird. I'm sure she'd be honored to take care of her hero."

"Enough!" Colter shot to his feet. The glass slammed onto the table, whiskey splashing everywhere.

He was in front of me in a single stride, his tall frame casting a shadow over me. "Stop being a goddamn martyr, Zora. It was business! For the family!"

"Business?" I laughed, stepping out of the shadows to look up at him. "You mean the deal you blew at Pier 3? Or the Feds crawling all over your South side books? That business?"

Colter's pupils constricted.

The rage in his eyes vanished, replaced by a flicker of fear and suspicion.

He stared at me, like he was re-evaluating an asset he thought he understood completely.

He took a breath, his whole demeanor shifting. The anger vanished, replaced by a smooth, practiced charm. "Alright, Zora. Enough. I got this for you."

Inside the velvet box he pulled from his pocket, a massive ruby necklace lay like a drop of blood.

"Burmese pigeon's blood. I had it flown in from an auction in Monaco," he added. "Wear it. And remember who you are. Don't lower yourself to fighting over trash."

I stared at the necklace.

Three months ago, Colter had pointed at a picture of this exact piece. "Heated and filled," he'd sneered. "Trash. Only good for some idiot on the side."

Now he was using this "mistress's necklace" to remind me of my place as his fiancée.

The irony was a slap in the face. The humiliation burned.

"It's beautiful." I took the box. It landed on my vanity with a dull thud. "Thank you."

He thought I'd caved. That arrogant, controlling look was back on his face.

"Go take a shower. Get in bed. And wait for me," he commanded, grabbing my chin like he was talking to a dog. "Tonight, I'll remind you who your man is."

The water started running in the bathroom.

A bitter sting hit my nose. I walked to the vanity.

I took off my engagement ring and dropped it into the trash, right next to the box with the fake.

Then I walked to the bathroom door. I leaned against the frame, staring at the blurred silhouette behind the frosted glass.

"Colter."

"What?"

A cruel smile touched my lips.

"If you need to fuck someone tonight, go find Mia. And tell her to stop wearing my perfume. On her, it smells like a two-dollar whore."