Chapter 3

An hour after he left, claiming there was trouble at an underground casino,

my phone vibrated again—not a message from Ted, but a notification from a private group chat.

It was one of those circles you only got added to if your name actually meant something.

No idle chatter. No small talk.

When something changed, the news moved faster than any rumor ever could.

Ted’s account.

He almost never posted publicly. In his world, visibility was calculated. Anything shared openly could be interpreted as intent—as alignment.

I opened the image.

"When the right person stands beside you, you no longer hesitate. You will choose her and officially enter into marriage."

Below the title is a photo of Anya and Ted.

The next picture shows their wedding date.

Messages flooded the chat almost immediately. No emojis. No sympathy. Just blunt reactions from people who understood exactly what this meant.

A mutual friend messaged me:

"My God. What is Ted thinking? He's going to marry a normal woman."

I left the chat and checked Ted's profile myself.

The post was still there.

Less than ten minutes later, it disappeared.

No explanation. No clarification.

Then, almost seamlessly, the same caption and images resurfaced—this time on Anja’s Instagram, framed as her announcement.

In our world, that kind of transfer wasn’t an accident.

This was intentional.

Then my phone rang.

Before, I would have answered immediately, angrily confronting him with tears in my eyes. But this time, I didn't.

This time, I let it ring, like a nuisance call.

A few minutes later, the call ended, and the room returned to its initial silence.

Looking at Anya's tweet, I felt no sting, no burning anger.

If I had to feel anything, it was a sense of absurdity.

Their wedding and my wedding were on the same day; I didn't know if it was coincidence or fate.

That night, when Ted finally came home, I was already in bed, eyes closed, breathing steadily—pretending to be asleep.

He moved quietly through the room, his steps measured and alert—so unlike the arrogance he usually wore so easily as the heir to a powerful family.

"Carly," he asked softly, a hint of anger in his voice.

"I called you earlier, why didn't you answer?"

I pretended to have just woken up.

“I must have been asleep, I didn’t hear you.”

He sighed in relief, leaned closer, and reached out to cover me with the blanket.

"Feeling better?"

Just then, a scent that wasn’t his wafted over me.

The smell made me nauseous.

I shifted slightly, avoiding his touch.

He paused.

"Carly," he asked cautiously in a low voice, "did you see something?"

I closed my eyes, not wanting to look at him.

“No. I’m just tired and want to sleep.”

He didn’t press further.

That night, I slept soundly until dawn.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt a huge weight lifted off my shoulders, as if nothing could hold me back anymore.

With my mind clear, I began packing my bags.

I erased every trace of myself from this house—it was never truly mine to begin with.

Only then did I realize how many couple's items I'd bought over the years.

Ted used to say I was childish, that it would damage the Mafia family's reputation, but he still used these things with me.

But ever since Anya came along, he never used them again.

Looking at these things, I couldn't help but laugh at myself. As the family's princess, I wasn't even an ordinary woman.

While searching, I found a diary.

It contained countless memories of Ted and me, filled with my love and Ted's promises.

It recorded the years we spent together.

But since Anya came along, it had disappeared.

When Ted came home, I was throwing the diary into the shredder.

He lunged forward, a flicker of fear and rage crossing his face, and snatched the diary back. Ignoring the injury on his finger, he turned to me furiously.

"Are you crazy?" he demanded. "Why did you destroy the diary?"