Secretly Divorced：The Ruthless Don Begs Too Late

Ives Moretti broke another promise, ditching our make-up honeymoon for his mistress, Isabella. He took her on a trip, lied that it was family business, and even had the audacity to promise me, “When I get back, I’ll give you an even better honeymoon.”

He had no idea I was done. I was leaving him for good.

The day after Ives left for Vegas, I officially stepped down from all my duties in the Moretti family, with the elders as my witness.

Normally, something this big needs the Don’s approval.

But when Ives’s underboss called him, it went like this: “Boss, about Mrs. Moretti…”

Ives cut him off, his voice sharp with annoyance. "I don't need a report on Aurora. Let her throw her little tantrum. Don't bother me with this shit."

He hung up.

And just like that, I was out.

A few of the usual Moretti cronies were smirking nearby. "Looks like the Don hates the missus even more than they say. Oh, wait, I guess it’ll be ex-missus soon…”

“The Boss is really sprung on this new girl. That Isabella’s got more life in her than some workaholic. Who wants to come home to a cold fish anyway?”

“You’re right,” I said, stopping to face them. A slow smile played on my lips. “So the next time we meet, it might be under very different circumstances.”

Their grins froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” I stepped closer, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Someone on the East Coast just made me an offer. A much, much better one.”

It was a lie, of course, but it was enough to wipe the smug looks right off their faces, replaced by something ugly and uncertain. Then, I turned and walked away.

Not long after, Ives called.

I let it ring twice, then answered.

“Aurora.” His voice was clipped, devoid of any warmth—the tone he used for his underlings. “I sent you some intel. There’s a problem with the Irish. I need it verified and handled. You have one hour.”

I opened the email and glanced at it.

It was about the arms deal Isabella had taken over. The deal I had spent six months building from the ground up, the one Ives forced me to “let” Isabella have to prove herself.

Now, there was a problem, and the mess was right back in my lap.

“Ives—” I began.

“Isabella!” His voice suddenly shifted, becoming soft and tender. “Stay in bed, honey. You were up until 4 a.m. working on family business. Get some more sleep.”

I could hear Isabella’s lazy, purring voice on the other end. “But I want to help you…”

“Silly girl, I’ve got Aurora,” Ives chuckled, the sound grating on my ears. “She’s my wife. The honor of the Moretti family is her honor, too. It’s her duty to help me out, isn't it?”

My fingers clenched into a fist. My nails dug into my palm.

This wasn’t the first time.

The first time, I secured the port rights in Chicago. At the celebration dinner, Isabella cried about feeling useless. Ives publicly announced that the success was her doing and told me privately not to be “so greedy for the spotlight.”

The second time, I got my hands on thirty million dollars’ worth of intel. Isabella “accidentally” let it leak. Ives called me “careless” and put Isabella in charge of the “cleanup.” In reality, I was the one who worked through the night to salvage the mess. She just showed up to take the credit.

The third, the fourth, the fifth time…

I’d lost count.

“Aurora?” Ives’s voice was sharp again, impatient. “Stop playing dumb and handle it. Don’t disappoint me.”

So, he really had no idea I’d stepped down.

And I was under no obligation to tell him.

As for the intel? To hell with it.

After I hung up, my phone buzzed. An Instagram notification.

Isabella had posted in the middle of the night: a flurry of pictures of her and Ives partying at a casino, champagne in hand.

So that was her “working on family business until 4 a.m.”

I was done thinking about them.

But then my phone pinged again. A notification from my bank.

Ives had just wired half a million dollars out of our joint account.