For five years, I was the Donna of the Moretti family. And for five years, I never once set foot in a core family dinner.

Every important family anniversary, I spent alone in our sprawling Chicago estate.

All because my husband, Chandler, the Moretti family heir, told me there was an ironclad rule: a wife who married in—one not born to the life—was forbidden from the family's inner circle.

Not even the Donna.

Under the guise of that so-called rule, I endured five long years of isolation.

Until the eve of another high-level family summit, when I stumbled upon the private social media account of his childhood sweetheart and family strategist, Brandy.

It was through her account that I saw my husband.

She had posted photos of herself with him. For five years, at every family summit I should have attended, she was the one standing by Chandler's side.

In that moment, I finally understood. It wasn’t that he couldn’t break the rules.

The woman he was willing to break the rules for—the one he let touch the ‘C’ tattooed over his heart, a symbol of our vows—was never me.

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1

My finger swiped across the screen, gliding from one photo to the next.

Sometimes in a Las Vegas casino.

Sometimes in a private cigar bar.

Sometimes at the baptism of one of the family’s children.

At every annual family summit, they stood together.

The earliest photo was dated five years ago, taken in the fall. The location was tagged.

The caption read: "Thanks to Chandler for the invitation. My first time at the family summit."

I zoomed in.

His childhood sweetheart, Brandy, wore a silver-gray gown—a color reserved for the Donna.

That night, I had sat alone in a quiet room in our Chicago estate, waiting for him to come home and tell me about the summit.

He returned very late, claiming the meeting was long and tedious. He was glad he’d spared me from such a boring event.

Every time after that, Chandler would use the same excuse. "You weren't born into this life; you don't understand the rules. This is for your own protection."

He said it was to protect me.

I told myself it was for the harmony of the family.

I accepted it.

Because of that, in five years of marriage, I had never attended a single inner-circle dinner, even though I was Donna of the Moretti family.

But now, staring at these photos, I saw that woman, who also wasn't born into this life, standing in my rightful place for five consecutive years.

It was then I understood.

He could make exceptions.

I just wasn't the one he was willing to make an exception for.

The light from the screen stung my eyes.

I was in the study, surrounded by stacks of ledgers for the chain of hotels the family used as a legitimate front. This was my duty as the Donna—to handle the clean businesses so the family heir could focus on more important matters.

I had never imagined those important matters included escorting another woman to the family summit.

"Colette, you're still up?"

Chandler's deep voice carried from the doorway, wrapped in the uniquely dangerous aura of the Moretti heir.

I quickly locked my phone and turned to face him.

"Just finished this month's audit," I said, my voice steady.

He strode in, his Armani suit jacket draped over his arm. He loosened his tie, a rare moment of relaxation he only showed around me.

He leaned in close. His face was as handsome as ever, but now, his features seemed like a stranger's.

He must have just returned from somewhere, wearing the unfamiliar scent of a Tom Ford perfume.

I frowned, shifting my body slightly, a subtle recoil he wouldn't notice.

"It's late. You should rest." He glanced at the documents on the table. "These can wait."

"Alright." I began to pack up my things.

He waited for me by the door, a familiar habit.

He took my bag, a natural, practiced gesture. We walked toward the bedroom together, him half a step ahead—the posture of a protector.

If I hadn't seen the truth, the gesture would have still moved me, still made my heart ache with affection.

But watching his back now, the irony was suffocating.

That night, before bed, Chandler said casually:

"The family summit is tomorrow, so I'll be busy. Make sure you get some rest. If the estate work is too much, leave it to the butler for now."

"I could go with you."

The words were out before I could stop them.

Chandler, on his way to the bathroom, stopped dead.

He turned to me, his brow furrowed.

"Colette, we've talked about this. The family rules—"

"A wife married in from the outside is forbidden from participating in the family's core affairs," I finished for him, my voice flat. "Not even the Donna."

"I'm glad you understand." He sighed in relief. "It’s an unbreakable tradition. It's not something I can change."

I stared at him, the question screaming in my mind: What about Brandy?

She wasn't of Moretti blood, either.

Her family lost its standing long ago.

And yet, she had attended the family summit for five years straight.

"Chandler," I said. "What if one day, the rules were broken?"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"For example," I said slowly, "if someone who wasn't born into this wanted to attend the summit, would you make an exception for her?"

"There are no 'what ifs'," he said, his voice turning cold. "Rules are rules. As the Donna, you should understand that better than anyone."

"I understand."

He nodded, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, then turned and disappeared into the bathroom.

The moment he was gone, I snatched his phone from the nightstand.

In five years of marriage, he’d never been secretive with his phone around me. He had even told me the passcode was our wedding anniversary.

That trust had moved me, and I’d never felt the need to check his phone, let alone snoop.

Perhaps that was why they could so easily keep me in the dark.

A bitter smile touched my lips.

The password was the same. I easily opened his messages.

The pinned chat was with Brandy.

The latest message was from this evening.

"After the summit tomorrow. The usual place?"

"Of course. It's been too long. I've missed you."

I clicked into the chat and scrolled up. Their conversations weren't frequent, but when they happened, the conversation flowed endlessly. He patiently replied to every little thing she mentioned, even the brand of a cigar he saw on the street.

I remembered when we first started dating, I was always eager to share my day with him. He would only offer a brief reply to my last message.

Over time, I assumed he just disliked texting and curbed my own impulse to reach out.

It turned out his enthusiasm was just selective.

Just then, his voice cut through the silence behind me.

"What are you looking at?"

I hit the lock button and spun around.

Chandler stood at the bathroom door, his hair still dripping, a bathrobe knotted loosely at his waist.

The scent of cedar and tobacco, a scent that had once captivated me, washed over me.

"What were you doing with my phone?"

"Couldn't sleep. I wanted to check the stock market and grabbed the wrong one." I placed the phone back on the nightstand. "I remembered a few of our stocks were underperforming."

He let out a soft laugh and came over, sitting behind me.

"Workaholic," he murmured, his breath warm against my neck. "It's late."

His hand rested on my shoulder, its warmth damp against my skin.

After five years, the touch was all too familiar.

But tonight, a wave of nausea rolled through me.

I stood up, pulling away from his touch.

"I'm too tired."

"Colette?"

His voice was tinged with confusion.

I walked to the window, the lights of Chicago glittering like scattered diamonds below.

"Chandler," I said, my back to him. "Since I became the Donna, you've never let me attend a single family summit."

A beat of silence.

"Didn't we just talk about this?" His tone was strained with impatience.

"Yes." I turned to face him. "But I want the real reason."

"The rules—"

"Stop talking about the rules," I interrupted. "Tell me the truth."

Chandler's expression hardened.

He rose to his feet, the oppressive aura of the Moretti heir radiating from him.

"Colette, are you questioning me?"

"I'm exercising my right to know as your wife," I said, holding my ground. "I have a right to be aware of major family decisions."

"The summits are the Don's business," he said, his voice hard. "The Donna's duty is to uphold the family’s public face and manage the legitimate businesses, not to get involved in our other affairs."

"What other affairs?"

"Infiltration from rival families." Seeing my resolve, he sighed. "Colette, you weren't born into this. Many of the Capos have their opinions. Keeping you away is how I protect you."

Such a noble excuse.

If I hadn't seen those photos, I might have let myself be convinced again.

A bitter smile touched my lips. He was still lying, right to my face.

"I see. I'll sleep in the study tonight."

Chandler frowned. "Why?"

"I have some accounts to double-check." I stood and grabbed my jacket.

"Colette—"

"You work late in the study all the time, don't you?" I looked at him. "I never ask about family business."

The words silenced him.

He was quiet for a moment, then gave a curt nod.

I grabbed my car keys and left the bedroom.

The study was in a separate building connected to the main house.

It was a wedding gift from Chandler. He’d said I needed my own space.

Looking back, maybe it was just to keep me conveniently out of the way.

I sat at my desk and opened my laptop.

The screen's glow pushed back the darkness.

Using my administrative access as Donna to the estate's assets and personnel, I found a security loophole. An entry point into the family's encrypted server.

I'd just never had a reason to use it before.

One by one, I opened the encrypted files.

At every family summit, Brandy's name was on the list of attendees.

Designation: Chief Advisor to the Heir, Chandler.

Advisor.

An orphan from a fallen family. What kind of advice could she offer the Moretti family?

I kept scrolling and discovered something even more absurd—

At a trade meeting in Miami, her designation was "strategic partner."

On the family's anniversary, she was a "special guest."

At a negotiation in New York, she was a "family representative."

And I, the actual Donna, hadn't attended a single one in five years.

My phone suddenly vibrated.

A message from the estate's butler:

"Donna, the Heir has ordered the car for six in the morning. He has urgent business."

A message like this at three in the morning.

So urgent it required three hours' notice?

"Understood," I replied.

Then I set my alarm for five.

The early Chicago morning was shrouded in a thin, gray fog.

I sat in my car, parked in the shadows of a tree just outside the main estate's side gate.

At 5:45 a.m., Chandler's bulletproof Cadillac Escalade slid out of the garage.

He didn't head for the family-controlled port. He drove toward the city center.

I followed, keeping a careful distance.

Yale Law had taught me this much—surveillance, analysis, evidence gathering.

Only this time, the subject was my husband.

The car stopped in front of a private penthouse in the heart of the city.

I knew the building. The family's top brass held secret meetings here sometimes.

But at six in the morning?

Chandler got out and walked into the lobby.

I waited for ten minutes, my hand on the door handle, ready to follow—

A silver sedan pulled up next to my car.

Brandy got out.

She wore a light gray silk robe, her hair piled loosely on her head. She looked like she had just rolled out of bed.

She rang the apartment's doorbell.

The door swung open.

Chandler stood there.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her inside.

The door clicked shut.

My knuckles turned white on the steering wheel.

My instincts screamed—Danger. Betrayal. Invasion.

Taking a deep breath, I got out of the car.

The apartment had a side door leading to a small, private garden.

I had been here once with Chandler. I knew the layout.

I slipped around to the side, hiding behind a row of manicured hedges.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the ground floor, I saw them.

In the lounge, a fire crackled in the hearth.

Brandy was curled on the sofa as Chandler handed her a cup of coffee.

They were talking, their words lost to the glass between us.

Then Brandy stood and walked toward him.

She rose onto her toes.

Chandler lowered his head.

They kissed.

It started with a brush of lips, then deepened into a hungry, possessive kiss—the kind of intimacy I had never known.

Brandy's arms wrapped around his neck as Chandler’s hands clamped onto her waist.

A raw, tearing pain ripped through me, and a scream of betrayal died in my throat.

I stumbled back, leaning against the cold brick wall.

The morning wind was sharp on my face.

Bile rose in my throat.

My phone vibrated. A text from Chandler.

"In an emergency meeting with the union guys. Won't be back until noon. Thanks for handling things at the estate today."

I stared at the words.

A meeting.

Through the window, I could see him pinning Brandy to the sofa, their movements a practiced, familiar dance.

A chill that had nothing to do with the morning air settled deep in my bones.

I leaned against the wall, a silent spectator.

Through the glass, the two were lost in their own world, his hands gripping her waist as they kissed.

The 'C' tattooed over my heart—for Chandler, a symbol of my vows—seemed to burn with an icy fire, a violation that chilled me to the bone.

I turned and walked away, my steps feeling strangely light.

Back in the car, I didn't start the engine.

I just sat there, staring at the building's main entrance.

It was 6:30 a.m. The streets were still empty.

The city had not yet woken, but betrayal had already taken root.

My phone vibrated again.