Chapter 1

Tonight was the Vance family's annual portrait.

But in the brief moment I glanced down to fix my dress, Camilla had already stolen the spot right beside Silas—a place reserved strictly for the Don's wife in Vance history.

No one in the room seemed to think it was out of line.

A few Elders even chuckled. "You can really see the chemistry when Camilla stands next to the boss."

I stared at them, humiliated. Camilla wore a striking red dress, the Browning pistol Silas had personally gifted her tucked into her waistband. She whispered excitedly to him.

Silas caught my eye, but only said, "Scarlett, just stand in the back row today."

"Silas," I said, keeping my voice steady. "That's not how things work."

He frowned. "Camilla's already settled. Don't make a scene. We have enough pictures of just the two of us. Missing one won't hurt."

"Don Silas," Camilla chimed in, putting on a slightly hurt expression. "Scarlett seems upset. Let me step back. I really don't mind where I stand."

Yet her feet didn't move an inch.

Silas placed a hand on her bare shoulder. "Your gunshot wound hasn't fully healed. Stay put."

He turned to me, a warning in his eyes. "Scarlett. Be a good girl."

I just looked at him.

Four years ago, on the day of our engagement, he held my hand, walked me to this exact spot, and declared to the Elders: Scarlett is my chosen wife, the future Donna of the Vance Famiglia. No one disrespects her.

Four years later, he was telling me to step aside.

"...Fine."

I grabbed the hem of my dress and retreated to the very last row, taking the corner spot.

Once the photos were done, the crowd dispersed. Camilla seamlessly looped her arm through Silas's.

"Don Silas, I heard a new seafood place opened in Midtown. They poached a chef from Hokkaido. Let's go celebrate tonight!"

Silas took his black coat from an underboss, gave a casual nod, and turned to me.

"Scarlett, come with us."

"I'm allergic to seafood," I reminded him.

Silas froze for a second.

He remembered. I saw a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

Five years ago, when we first started dating, I accidentally ate a piece of bread dipped in shrimp oil. My throat closed up instantly, and my face went red. Silas ran three red lights getting me to the ER, then stayed by my bed for three days, his eyes bloodshot.

When I was discharged, he put sticky notes everywhere—his study, his phone lock screen, the car dashboard: Don't let Scarlett touch any seafood.

He remembered my allergy. Yet, all he said was, "I'll have the kitchen make you a steak. Come on, don't be a buzzkill tonight."

His hand rested on my shoulder, his eyes as gentle as always, but I felt like I was suffocating.

Camilla lowered her head on his other side, looking torn. "Don Silas, let's just pick another place. I don't want Scarlett to be sad..."

"We're not changing places," Silas said, his voice dropping. "My future Donna isn't that petty."

He looked down at me, waiting for my answer.

The crystal chandelier at the end of the hall blurred in my stinging eyes.

"...Fine," I heard myself say. "I'll go with you."