Saint of No Forgiveness, Sinner of No Shame
They say Don Julian Marconi would burn the world for one tear of mine.
Five years ago, at the Met Gala, he spent millions to hang emeralds around my neck and swore I was his Madonna. Five years later, beneath the velvet boxes of our anniversary, I found a lace strap soaked in sin—and a fresh, crimson smear on his collar that told me exactly whose bed he’d left.
I smiled. I asked him to sign a blank sheet of paper. And that meant he was agreeing to whatever I wanted.
He called it love. I called it the death warrant for his empire.
In fifteen days, I finalized our divorce papers. I boarded the Stella d’Oro as Serena Cole and burned Celeste Marconi to ash on the deck. Then I vanished with his fortune, his power and the one secret that would destroy him.
I was the saint he worshipped.
Now I am the ghost who haunts him.
No groveling. No forgiveness. No second chance.
Just ashes.