The Don's Ex-Wife Became a Legend

When Vincent called me back, the news about Isabella Corleone's miscarriage had already been splashed across the New York Post for a whole night.

"What new stunt is this?" His tone was dismissive. "You've tried crying and throwing fits, so now you're using a baby to get my attention?"

I gripped the edge of the sink, saying nothing.

"I know you love me too much, that's why you're like this." He sighed, his voice softening slightly. "But no matter how upset you are, you shouldn't joke about a child."

He paused, then continued, "Photos of me and Lena at that event got out. She just signed on for a new reality show—her career can't afford any scandals. Just let her use your buzz to deflect attention for a bit. In a few days, I'll take you to Sicily."

Without waiting for my answer, he hung up.

I steadied myself against the sink. In the mirror, my heavily made-up face was still deathly pale, slowly twisting into a bitter smile.

On the trending list, the headline about Vincent and Lena entering a hotel together late at night vanished within minutes.

In its place: news about my miscarriage, my alleged promiscuity, and claims that Vincent and I had long been divorced. The hashtag #IsabellaGetOutOfHollywood shot straight to number one.

Hateful messages flooded my phone, one after another. My lips trembled uncontrollably.

I realized that this kind of public scandal would destroy any actress's career. And in five minutes, I had to walk the red carpet at the Corleone family charity gala.

Just thinking about it made my heart ache with bitterness.

Not only did I have to deal with a grueling filming schedule, but I also had to handle the endless parade of women around Vincent.

Vincent was the king of this city, the Don who controlled the underworld. He was ruthless, calculating, his hands stained with blood—yet he wasn't without honor.

All of New York knew Lena was a "poor soul"—her brother Thomas had taken a bullet for Vincent three years ago, dying in the streets of Sicily. Vincent carried that debt in his bones, repeatedly looking after and caring for Lena.

I knew all that.

What I didn't know was when that debt started to outweigh everything between us.

At the charity gala, the reporters' camera flashes nearly blinded me.

"Miss Isabella, is it true that the baby's father wasn't Vincent?"

"Vincent was photographed on a late-night date. Did you know about it?"

"Have you two already divorced?"

Hearing the increasingly pointed questions, I maintained a polished smile and picked the most harmless one to answer:

"Vincent is handling family business. He's on a business trip to Chicago today, so he couldn't attend with me. Our relationship is strong. Thank you all for your concern."

Suddenly, the media's attention shifted. My anxious heart slowly settled as I followed their gaze—

Vincent, the man I'd just claimed wasn't in New York, appeared at the other end of the red carpet with Lena on his arm.

He saw me, his eyes flickering with something like guilt.

Beside him, Lena's expression was pure provocation.

My gaze drifted downward and landed on her neck—she was wearing the anniversary necklace Vincent had promised to buy for me.

A dull ache pulsed deep in my abdomen.

I clenched my fists, ignoring the stares around me. I didn't even finish the gala before excusing myself to the host and returning to my hotel. I swallowed a handful of painkillers and slowly drifted into sleep.

Through my haze, I felt the bed dip slightly.

He twisted a strand of my hair around his finger. "You mad?"

His voice was low, cautious. "I should've told you about my plans. Lena begged me to walk the carpet with her, said she was scared to go alone after Thomas died... I couldn't say no."

He paused, his voice dropping lower. "I know it wasn't ideal. But you understand—I can't refuse her. Not about this."

The smell of alcohol mixed with perfume made me nauseous.

I swatted away the hand on my waist, my tone distant. "It's late. Get some sleep."

My rejection set him off. He punched the comforter and stood over me. "Isabella, do you have any idea how long Lena cried and begged me today to stay by her side?"

"You're the only one with the title of Mrs. Corleone. No matter how much I accompany Lena, it's all just for show. Stop being unreasonable, okay? You know you're the one I care about most."

According to him, I should be grateful that he chose to spend the night with me.

The most basic duty of a husband—Vincent made it sound like some grand favor.

My nails dug into my palms as I looked calmly at his irritated expression.

"Vincent, I don't want the title of Mrs. Corleone anymore."

"Let's get a divorce."