All Chapters of One Year with the Mafia Boss: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Jaydon“Isayanna?” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, and I feel my brows furrow deeply, almost painfully. My heart starts thumping in my chest, loud and erratic, like it’s trying to break free. “What about her?” I ask, my tone laced with a mix of curiosity and dread. Something about the way Christian hesitates makes my stomach twist into knots. Has something happened to her? Is she okay? Did she… did she try to end her life because of what I did? The thought slams into me like a freight train, and I feel my breath hitch. My mind races, conjuring up images I do not want to see—images of her hurt, broken, or worse. Christian’s expression is blank, unreadable, and it only makes my anxiety spike. I want to step closer, grab him by the shoulders, and shake him until the words spill out. My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to move, to do something. “Christian?” I call out again, my voice tighter this time, more urgent. “Did something happen to Isayanna?”“No!” His response is f

Isayanna My eyelids flutter open, and a low moan escapes my lips. My head feels like it’s being crushed under a heavy weight, pounding relentlessly, and my eyes are so heavy it’s like they’ve been glued shut. It takes every ounce of effort just to keep them open, and even then, everything feels blurry and out of focus.My body feels weak, too weak to move properly. When someone touches my hand, I try to lift it, but even that small motion feels like lifting a boulder. My muscles protest, and I let out a shaky breath, frustrated with how helpless I feel.Grandma’s face comes into view, her expression filled with worry. Her eyes are wide, her lips pressed into a thin line, and her hands tremble as she reaches for me. “Isayanna!” she exclaims, her voice trembling with emotion.I hear gasps around me, and the sound of footsteps moving closer. I turn my head slowly, carefully, as though any sudden movement might make my skull split open. Safina is standing near Grandma, her face pale and

Isayanna I took large, deliberate steps toward our room. No, not our room anymore. Jaydon’s room. It had stopped being mine the moment I walked out two weeks ago. The thought made my chest tighten, but I pushed the feeling down. I had no time for sentimentality. Not now. Not when everything was falling apart.I pushed the door open and stepped inside, acting as if it were perfectly normal for the boss’s wife to stroll into her marital home at five in the morning. As if it were normal for me to be here after two weeks of silence, two weeks of avoiding this place, this man, this life. The air felt heavy, suffocating, like the walls were closing in on me. I forced myself to breathe, to keep moving.The maids would not call Jaydon. I was sure of that. They did not know about our disagreement, did they? At least, I hoped they didn’t. Jaydon was not the type to share personal matters with the staff. He was too private, too proud for that. Still, I couldn’t shake the unease that prickled a

Isayanna The apartment is a relic. It groans under the weight of the wind, the floorboards shrieking like rusted hinges and the plumbing protesting every time I turn the tap. The walls are paper-thin, offering no sanctuary from the world, yet the view from my window is a masterpiece. Paris sprawls beneath me—a jagged horizon of zinc rooftops and church spires, with the Seine shimmering like a ribbon of spilled silver in the distance.It is a view that lies to me. It tells me life is perfect, while I sit here in a frayed cane chair, tracing the velvet rot of the armrests. My life is not a masterpiece; it’s a wreckage of "what-ifs."Every morning, the five flights of stairs remind me of my new reality. There is no elevator in this crumbling building. With my belly growing heavier, the climb is a grueling marathon. By the time I reach my door, my lungs burn and my legs tremble, a physical manifestation of how far I’ve fallen.I hide. That is my new profession. I don’t leave unless I hav

Isayanna The bookstore is unusually packed today, and the crowd makes it nearly impossible for me to navigate through the narrow aisles. I feel a pang of frustration as I try to catch the attention of one of the salespeople. My voice is drowned out by the chatter of customers, and I have to wave my hand awkwardly to get someone to notice me. When I finally manage to persuade a salesman to bring me the books I am looking for, I let out a small sigh of relief. Even so, the whole process feels like a battle, and I am already exhausted by the time I have the books in my hands.I still read romantic novels. There is something comforting about them, even if some of the stories hit a little too close to home. Some of the plots are eerily similar to my own life, while others are pure escapism—beautiful, heartwarming tales from start to finish. Sure, the characters face hardships and tribulations, but what always stands out to me is the love and trust between the couples. It is the kind of lo