The Billionaire's Ex-wife is a Fashion Icon

LOLA'S POV

The bruise on my left cheekbone is turning purple, and I don't have enough concealer for this.

I lean closer to the bathroom mirror, my breath fogging the glass. It's not as bad as last time. Last time, my eye swelled shut and I had to lie to the housekeeper about walking into a door. She didn't believe me, but she didn't say anything because nobody ever does.

This is just a bruise. I can work with a bruise.

My hands won't stop shaking as I reach for the foundation. The expensive kind. Ethan doesn't care what I spend on makeup as long as I look perfect when his associates visit. Can't have them seeing what he does behind closed doors. I dab foundation over my cheekbone and tears spring to my eyes. The bruise is so tender that even gentle pressure feels like he's hitting me all over again. I blink rapidly. Can't cry. If I cry, my eyes will get puffy and then he'll know.

Layer after layer until the purple fades beneath beige. Then next, concealer, thick and heavy. There's an art to this now. Four years of practice. There's a smaller bruise on my jaw. And fingerprints on my upper arm, five dark ovals where he grabbed me last night and shook me. Long sleeves today, definitely long sleeves.

I step back and force myself to look at my reflection. I'm twenty-three years old, and I look like a ghost. My cheekbones are too sharp. There are permanent dark circles under my eyes. My hair hangs limp past my shoulders.

When did I become this person?

Four years of marriage. Four years of hell.

I was nineteen when I married Ethan. Nineteen and stupid and so desperately lonely I couldn't see what he really was. He dated me properly. Flowers every week. Expensive dinners. He made me feel like I mattered. I was an orphan with no family, and here was this handsome man from a powerful family saying he wanted me.

I thought I'd finally found home.

The wedding night, he dropped the mask. He looked at me with disgust and slapped d me so hard I tasted blood. That was the first time. And it's gotten worse every minute, every day, every year. I pull my hair into a tight bun. Smooth down my navy dress, high neck and long sleeves. Nothing he could use as an excuse, though he never really needs one.

Deep breath. Just get through today.

The kitchen is freezing. Ethan likes it cold. Says it keeps him sharp. I crack eggs into the pan. Bacon, toast, coffee. Black, two sugars. The same breakfast every morning for four years.

I hear his footsteps on the stairs. My entire body goes rigid.

He walks in and doesn't look at me.

"Coffee ready?"

"Yes, it's..." My voice comes out raspy. "Your breakfast will be done in just..."

"I didn't ask when breakfast would be ready."

"It is. I'm sorry..."

He sits down with a heavy sigh, like my existence exhausts him. He pulls out his phone. I pour his coffee with shaking hands. Add exactly two sugars. Set it in front of him carefully.

I plate his food and carry it over.

"Thank you," I whisper, even though I prepared everything. He doesn't respond. Just starts eating while staring at his phone. I stand by the counter, hands clasped, waiting. I already ate earlier because I'm not allowed to sit with him unless he invites me. Which he never does.

The silence is suffocating.

"You look tired."

I flinch. He's staring at me now.

"I'm fine, I just didn't sleep well..."

"You look like shit, actually." He sips his coffee slowly. "Did you even try this morning? Or did you just give up?"

The makeup. Can he see through it?

"I'm sorry, I can go fix it, I'll do better..."

"You always say that." He cuts into his eggs with sharp movements. "Four years, Lola. Four fucking years and you still can't get anything right."

My throat tightens.

"I'm sorry."

He eats in silence. Then: "My father's coming by this morning. Business meeting."

Everything inside me goes cold. Ocean.

"What time?"

"Nine o'clock. Make sure this house is spotless. And for God's sake, do something about your face. I can't have my father thinking I married some beaten-down..." He stops, smiling cruelly. "Just fix it." He knows I can barely cover the bruises.

"I will. I'll make sure everything is perfect."

"You better." He stands, towering over me. "My father is Capo. Head of this entire organization. If you embarrass me in front of him..." He doesn't finish. He doesn't have to.

"I understand."

"Do you?" He steps closer and I step back automatically, hitting the counter. He leans in. "Because sometimes I think you're just too fucking stupid to..."

"I understand," I interrupt. "I won't embarrass you. I promise."

He stares at me, deciding. Finally, he steps back.

"You're worthless. Say it."

My chest caves in. "Ethan, please..."

"Say it."

"I'm..." The words stick. "I'm worthless."

"Again."

"I'm worthless." Tears burn but I don't let them fall.

"That's right." He brushes past me. "Clean this up. And if anything is out of place when my father arrives, you'll regret it."

His office door slams.

I stand there, gripping the counter, shaking.

Ocean Moretti is coming here in less than an hour.

And I have to pretend everything is fine.

At eight-forty, I check my reflection. The makeup looks good. You can't see the bruise unless you're really looking. My dress is neat. Hair perfect.

I look like the ideal mafia wife. Polished and empty.

The doorbell rings at exactly nine, and my heart launches into my throat.

I open the door.

Ocean Moretti is standing on my doorstep.

Tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders filling out his dark suit. Salt-and-pepper hair. Sharp features. But it's his eyes that make my breath catch.

Gray. Storm gray. Looking directly at me with an intensity that sees everything.

He's forty-nine years old. Twenty-six years older than me.

And I feel something I haven't felt in four years.

Safe.

"Mr. Moretti," I manage. "Please, come in."

"Thank you." His voice is deep, controlled, but warm.

He steps inside. I catch expensive cologne.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

"Coffee would be good. Black, no sugar."

"Of course."

I lead him toward the office. He's been here before, but today feels different.

I knock.

"Come in!"

Ethan is behind his desk, trying to look important. Next to his father, he looks like a child playing dress-up.

"Father. Right on time."

"Ethan." Ocean's tone is neutral. Cold underneath.

"I'll bring coffee right away," I say softly.

"Thank you," Ocean says, eyes finding mine.

My cheeks flush. I close the door and practically run to the kitchen.

Stop it. He's Ethan's father. He's dangerous.

But my hands shake as I prepare the coffee, and it's not from fear.

I arrange everything on a tray and carry it back. Knock softly.

"Come in."

They're deep in conversation. I set the tray down quietly. Pour Ocean's coffee first.

"Thank you."

I freeze. Glance up.

Ocean is looking at me. Really looking. His eyes move across my face slowly, and I see the exact moment something changes.

His eyes narrow. Sharpen. Focus on my cheekbone.

He sees the bruise.

"You're welcome," I whisper, trembling.

"That's all," Ethan snaps. "Leave."

"Of course." I set Ethan's coffee down quickly. "I'll be in the kitchen."

"Close the door."

I do, then stand in the hallway, heart pounding.

He saw it. Ocean saw the bruise.

An hour and a half later, the office door opens.

"Show my father out," Ethan says.

I open the front door.

Ocean moves toward me, pausing when he reaches me.

Looks at me again with those storm-gray eyes.

This time, there's no mistaking it. Concern. Anger. Something protective.

"Thank you for the coffee," he says softly. "It was very good."

"It was no trouble."

He steps outside, then turns back.

For a long moment, he just looks at me. Studies my face like he's memorizing it.

"Have a good day," he says quietly, and the words feel weighted. Like he's trying to tell me something.

"You too, Mr. Moretti."

He holds my gaze. One second. Two. Three.

Then he turns and walks away.

I close the door and lean against it, trembling.

He saw it. I know he saw it.

And for the first time in four years, someone actually saw what was happening.

The question is: what happens now?