The Wright Queen

The third time I caught my husband with his assistant, I didn't hold back. I put their mess on front street for the world to see.

But my little stunt only got me a lawsuit from the family and my own son calling me a psycho.

I was finally done. “I want a divorce.”

"Isabella Moretti, you stand accused of maliciously leaking private Moretti family business, causing severe damage to the family's reputation."

The judge's voice echoed through the courtroom. I sat at the defendant's table, the cold steel on my wrists a sharp reminder of the price.

Three days ago, I'd sent a video of my husband, Dante, and his assistant, Angelina, going at it in his office to the Chicago Tribune.

Now, I was paying for it.

"Does the defendant have anything to say?"

My lawyer stood up. "Your Honor, my client is deeply remorseful—"

"I'm not," I cut him off.

The court fell silent.

"Isabella!" Dante shot up from his seat, his eyes burning with rage. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"

I turned to look at the man I’d spent ten years with. He was still as handsome as the day we met.

Only now, when I looked at him, all I felt was disgust.

"I know exactly what I'm doing," I said, my voice calm.

The judge banged his gavel. "The defendant is sentenced to six months in prison. Bail is set at five hundred thousand dollars."

The crack of the gavel sounded final.

In the prison visitation room, Dante sat across from me.

He wore a handmade Italian suit, the emerald cufflinks I’d given him on his cuffs. A gift from my dowry.

"You're insane," he said, his voice pure accusation. "You'd burn down this family over some nobody?"

"A nobody?" I laughed. "Dante, the money you've spent on her could buy half the docks."

"That was just business—"

"What kind of business? The kind you do on your office desk? Or in our bed?"

His face flushed.

"Enough!" Dante slammed a fist on the table. "You think the reporters outside are going to let this go? Leo's getting laughed at by his classmates. The family elders are demanding answers. And it's all because of you!"

My heart twisted at the mention of our son.

"How's Leo?"

"He's fine. Better, even, without his psycho mother around," Dante sneered. "In fact, he wrote an essay. It's called 'My Mother Is Crazy.'"

That's when my world shattered.

"That's impossible..."

Dante pulled a piece of paper from his jacket and slid it across the table.

It was Leo's childish handwriting.

My mother is a psycho. She smashes things at home and screams at my father. She told strangers our family secrets. I'm ashamed she's my mother. I wish Aunt Angelina could be my new mom. She's gentle and smart, not crazy like my mom...

My hands were shaking.

"He wrote this?"

"Every word," Dante said, pulling the paper back, a smug look in his eyes. "You get it now? Even your own son can't stand you."

I closed my eyes as the tears finally fell.

Ten years of marriage. I gave up everything for this family. My career, my dreams, even my name. I made myself the perfect Moretti matriarch—I laundered their money, schmoozed for them, gave them an heir.

And now, my own son hated me.

"A divorce," I said, opening my eyes. My voice was terrifyingly calm. "I agree to a divorce."

Dante was stunned. He expected me to beg, to plead, to give in for Leo's sake.

"What did you say?"

"I said, I want a divorce. I want fifty million in cash. You can keep everything else. Including Leo."

"Isabella, you can't—"

"I can." I stood up. "Tell the elders their traitor problem is solved."

Dante stared at me, then finally nodded. "You'll regret this, Isabella."

As for bail, it was clear he had no intention of getting me out early.

I thought I was going to be locked up for the full six months, but the next day, the door to the visitation room opened again.

A few men in black suits pushed their way in. Leading them was a blonde woman. She looked about fifty, dressed in a Chanel suit, a Cuban cigar held between her fingers.

"Mom?" I stared, shocked.

Victoria Wright. My mother, who I hadn't seen in years.

My mother bailed me out.

Outside the prison, Victoria lit her cigar.

"Twenty-four years, Isabella. Are you finally ready to take my advice?"

I remembered what she’d said when I was six, when she'd tried to take me away from my father. "Darling, remember this: never find yourself without a weapon."

I chose to stay then.

Now, I finally understood.

My voice was hoarse but steady. "As soon as the divorce is final, I'm coming with you."