Wife for Her Salvation

There was only a door between me and the study.

Seamus’s voice drifted out in a calm, measured tone, so deliberately restrained that the trace of regret beneath it felt rehearsed rather than sincere.

"She didn't choose me," he said.

"So the only thing I could do was make sure Pera's father lived. As long as Pera is happy, that's enough."

"As for Shirley..."He paused.

"I gave her a stable life. An identity as Donna, and a carefree life. It was my responsibility."

Sitting opposite him, Tom—his closest confidant—looked shocked.

"Pera has no idea what you did," Tom said in a low voice.

"You manipulated the federal organ transplant system."

“If anyone finds out, you're finished. Even if you're a Mafia boss, you can't escape federal prosecution. Is it really worth it for a woman?”

“Whether it's worth it or not isn't up to you,” Seamus replied coldly.“If she's happy, I'll do it again.”

“Don't mention Shirley's father,” he continued calmly.

“If my name is on the list, I won't hesitate.”

“It's all in the past,” he concluded.

“Pera is fine now. That's what matters most.”

“What about Shirley?” Tom asked softly.

“She loves you. And if one day she ever discovers that it was you who caused her father’s transplant to fail…”

The sentence dissolved into silence as Seamus struck a match and lit his cigarette, smoke coiling around his features while he let out a low, dry laugh that held no warmth at all.

“Then I'd give my life for her forgiveness.” The footsteps grew closer.

I stumbled back to my bedroom.

The scalding coffee burned my hands, but my body was ice-cold.

So, my father didn't die from a failed surgery.

He died because someone else took his place.

Years ago, Sam abandoned me, making me the laughingstock of everyone.

Seamus's proposal didn't save me.

Quite the opposite—It sealed my fate.

So it turned out that Seamus married me not out of love, but out of an instinctive need to protect Pella, a realization so pathetic that by the time the front door closed and Tom disappeared down the corridor, there was nothing left for me to feel but a hollow ache, and a moment later Seamus entered the room, carrying with him the faint, unmistakable scent of alcohol.

He cupped my face and gently kissed my forehead.

His eyes were tender and familiar.

"Why are you standing here?"

"Nothing," I said softly."I accidentally spilled some coffee."

"Let the butler handle it," he said softly."You don't need to do anything." "

Then he kissed the back of my hand.

As always, he was gentle and considerate—

Every gesture of his perfectly embodied the image of a mafia heir.

As if nothing had happened."