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The heavy wooden door to the study swung open.

Donatello walked in, carrying the cold scent of cigars and the weight of the city on his shoulders. His deep-set eyes swept over me, his tone as businesslike as ever. “What is it?”

I steadied my breath and slid a single document from a thick stack of shipping reports.

“There’s a problem with the cargo at Pier 5. The other party needs your signature on the authorization, fast.” I pushed the paper in front of him. “Just sign. I’ll handle the rest.”

It was the divorce agreement, disguised as a bill of lading.

I’d already laid out the division of assets. All he had to do was sign, and in a month, I’d be free.

Donatello didn’t reach for the pen.

For a man who clawed his way to the top through blood and bullets, caution was etched into his very bones.

He instinctively started to flip to the previous page to check the terms.

My blood went cold.

If he turned that page, he’d see the words “Divorce Agreement” in bold letters.

“Donatello?”

A timid, sweet voice came from the doorway.

Angelina peeked her head in, looking at us with wide, curious eyes.

Donatello froze.

He hurriedly scrawled his signature, then walked toward her, his voice shifting to a gentleness I’d never heard. “What are you doing up here? Are you hungry?”

“No, am I interrupting?” Angelina smiled shyly, then her eyes fell on me. “And who is this?”

Before I could speak, Donatello answered for me. “Avril. The Family’s lawyer. You haven’t met.”

“Come on,” he said to Angelina, his hand already on the small of her back. “I booked that restaurant you like. No business tonight. It’s just for you.”

And with that, he ushered her away, leaving me standing alone in his long shadow.

A bitter smile touched my lips.

Was he that afraid of her finding out I was his wife?

If he’d just looked for one more second, he would’ve known he wasn’t signing away a shipment of goods.

But his eyes were already stolen by the girl in the doorway.

Our marriage was a secret. Besides our parents, no one knew.

I fell for him in college, chased him relentlessly for four years, and got nowhere.

For three years after graduation, I still couldn’t let him go.

Then, one day, I found him ambushed by a rival family, bleeding out in an alley and barely alive. I saved him.

I nursed him day and night for a whole month.

When he recovered, he offered to marry me.

I knew he was doing it to repay the debt, but I was arrogant enough to think I could win him over, that I could be the one to thaw the ice in his veins.

Only after we were married did I find out his heart was already taken by the sister of his most trusted man, his underboss, Marcus.

She was married, so I guess he figured it didn’t matter who he ended up with.

But I didn't give up. For three years, I played the part of both the Don’s wife and his Chief Counsel.

Until a month ago, when Angelina’s husband cheated on her. She was getting a divorce.

The news sent Donatello, a man who was always cold and distant, into a rare, drunken celebration.

Then yesterday, while reviewing the books for the West Side operations, I saw something that froze me to the core.

Angelina, freshly moved out of her ex-husband’s place, was being followed by four stone-faced bodyguards in black suits.

Vexille Family’s highest level of security. An honor guard for the Don’s wife. For me.

I had told myself over and over that I should be grateful just to be his, but in that moment, I knew I couldn't pretend anymore.

It finally hit me. I would never have his heart.

I walked out of his study and into the bathroom. Looking at the woman in the mirror, always dressed in stiff, professional suits to please him, felt like a cruel joke.

I raised my left hand. The diamond on my ring finger was the only proof of our marriage. I had never taken it off in three years.

I twisted it off and dropped it into the trash can.

That night, Donatello returned to the estate.

He took off his overcoat, his eyes scanning over me with their usual cool indifference. But his gaze snagged for a second on my bare left hand.

“The ring?” he asked, frowning.

“It got dirty. Sent it for cleaning,” I answered calmly.

He didn't question it. He casually placed a beautifully wrapped bouquet on the coffee table and headed for the study.

“Florist was on the corner. Got these.”

I stared at the flowers, a bitter taste filling my mouth.

Stargazer lilies.

Three years of marriage, and he still didn’t know I was severely allergic to lily pollen.

The old me would have been thrilled he’d brought me flowers at all. But I was done making myself small.

I grabbed the bouquet and threw it in the trash.

Right along with this failed marriage.