To ransom my husband from the black market, I threw myself into relentless work, earning every penny I could. My son suffered alongside me, sharing in my exhaustion and deprivation.

Years of malnutrition had left him vulnerable, and eventually, he was diagnosed with leukemia. I wept as I scraped together money from relatives and friends to pay for his chemotherapy.

But on the way to the hospital, a sudden, unbearable pain wracked him. In his struggle, he accidentally bit off his own tongue and died in agony before we even reached the doors.

I clutched my son's ashes and went straight to the black market, determined to use the borrowed money to bring my husband back.

The moment I stepped in, I overheard a conversation between Joe Masseria and his men.

"Boss, Sandra comes every month with her payments. She's suffered a lot just to ransom you," one said.

At that moment, a widow—Joe's sister-in-law, long mourning her late husband—appeared beside him.

"Joe," she said, her voice calm but cutting, "all these years, you've protected me from harm, even giving me the title of a mob boss's wife. But you've kept Sandra in the dark the whole time. Isn't that… terribly unfair to her?"

Joe's eyes were cold, devoid of any pity for me. He scoffed.

"Fairness is ruthless. She's had all this love from me. What's a little suffering compared to that?

"But she's waited for me all these years. It's time I returned—before she loses her mind and comes after you.

"If she's still sensible, I'll make sure her and her son's quality of life improves a bit."

I understood everything in that instant. Holding my son's ashes to my chest, I wept until it felt as if my heart would shatter.

Joe—your so-called fairness killed my son. And I am done waiting for you.

Sandra's POV

I left the black market.

Cradling my son's ashes, I took him to the amusement park he had long dreamed of visiting.

He had always understood how hard I worked for every penny. Every time I saved enough and promised to take him to the park, he would refuse, insisting patiently, "Let's wait until Mom ransoms Dad. Then the three of us can go together."

But he waited and waited. What he received instead was a body weakened by illness. The father he longed for, apparently trapped in the black market, turned out to be nothing but a cruel illusion.

The grief hit me so hard that I couldn't shed a single tear. Numb, I wandered with my son's ashes from ride to ride, letting him "play" as if he were still there.

Night fell. I carried the ashes along the riverbank, lost in the quiet murmur of the water. Suddenly, a screen shot up from the center of the river, projecting a photo of Joe Masseria's sister-in-law, Sofia Rizzuto, and her son—along with a single line of text.

[Sofia's mysterious husband has captured a priceless treasure for her, and he has built Mechinsia's largest amusement park for their son, set to open in one month!]

I stared at the words, frozen, until the dam of composure broke. I collapsed to the ground and wept like I had never wept before. All the sorrow I had buried over the years surged at once.

For so many years, I had worked day and night, risking my life, just to ransom him. My son had often been left without care; since the age of three, he had been in boarding nurseries. Everyone who saw us would sigh at our misfortune.

The money I had scraped together for my son's treatment—the money that should have saved him—was worth less than a toy plane for Sofia's son.

For the sake of not harming his brother's widow, Joe had not returned home once in five years.

I bowed my head and cried until my body was wracked with sobs, until I vomited blood from sheer despair. Gasping for air, I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth and struggled to stand.

Then my phone lit up with a number I hadn't seen in ages.

I answered, and a familiar, excited voice came through.

"Sandra, I've been working hard lately. The boss's family had some celebrations, and in his joy, he let me go. I'll be home soon."

In the past, whenever he got hold of a phone, he would call me immediately. I would remind him to eat well, to take care of himself, promising I would ransom him back as soon as possible.

But now… it seemed he only called on a whim, a sudden thought of me, a charity rather than a concern.

A blade seemed lodged in my throat. I paused for a long moment before I could even speak.

"Okay."

My calm, almost indifferent response startled him. Perhaps he thought I was too exhausted from work to speak.

Joe coaxed me softly over the phone.

"All right, all right. We've been apart for so many years. Let's have a family reunion dinner with our son."

I muttered a casual reply and hung up.

On the bus, my phone kept pinging. It was Joe sending photos of a restaurant.

The dishes in the pictures were beyond anything my son and I could have imagined. Normally, a simple plate of pickles would make him hum with happiness. He had never known a day of indulgence in his life.

I had once believed that if I just worked hard enough, earned enough money, I could ransom Joe and provide a shield over my son and me. But all along, it had been a lie. My years of toil were nothing but a cruel joke.

Tears fell onto the ashes, and only then did I realize my face was already soaked. I turned off the screen, wiped my tears, and closed my eyes tightly.

'Joe… I'm done playing along with your lies.'

…

That night, I didn't return home. I took my son's ashes to the seaside.

He loved the ocean. We had once promised each other that when his father returned and I no longer had to work myself to exhaustion, we would come here often.

The next morning, my phone lit up with dozens of missed calls and messages from Joe.

I didn't answer. I didn't read them.

Instead, I went to the small shop where I had worked part-time and resigned from every job, one by one. Without realizing it, I had visited over ten places.

Once all the resignations were done, I took my son's ashes and rode the bus back to our rental.

He didn't belong here. I had to lay him to rest in our hometown.

When I got home, Joe sat alone on a stool, the air around him heavy. He looked as if he hadn't slept all night.

I had imagined countless times what it would feel like to see him again. Would I be excited? Overwhelmed? Would I throw myself into his arms and cry?

But now, there were no such emotions. Only hatred. My heart felt like still water.

He, however, was different. He turned and glared at me.

"Where did you go? Why was your phone off? Why didn't you come home all night? Why didn't you answer me?"

His questions carried the sting of grievance, of complaint.

I glanced at him. He was deliberately dressed poorly. But no shabby shirt could erase the years of wealth, the air of nobility that clung to him. In this broken rental, he looked out of place. Next to me—a woman whose face bore the marks of hardship—we were worlds apart.

I didn't want to get entangled. I muttered that I was working a night shift.

But as I turned, he rushed forward and pressed me against the wall. His eyes were red at the corners.

"Sandra! After all these years, you don't miss me? Is this how you greet me?"

I buried my face deep, refusing to let him see my tears.

He continued, "But I've missed you so much!"

The words pierced my chest like a sword. Tears finally fell, uncontrolled, like pearls spilling from a broken string.

Missed me? And for that, you could trick me like a fool, disappear for five years, watch my son and me suffer without lifting a finger?

I laughed bitterly. Perhaps his words were just another tease, treating me like a fool.

I lowered my head and pushed him away.

"I'm tired. I want to sleep."

He watched my retreating back, one hand on his hip, an unexplainable irritation stirring in him.

When I woke, it was evening. I stared blankly out the window. How many years had passed since I could lie down without worry? I couldn't remember. All I knew was that for as long as I could recall, waking up meant going straight to work, never allowing myself a single pause.

The old door suddenly swung open.

Joe handed me a dress.

"Sandra, put this on. We'll pick up our son and go eat together."

Pick up our son? From where?

Before I could respond, he pressed on, urging me without pause.

I stared at myself in the mirror, clad in the dress, and felt dazed for a long moment.

I had once been a girl who loved beauty, who loved wearing pretty dresses. But ever since I had to earn money to ransom Joe, I had never worn one again.

Years of relentless labor had roughened my skin, leaving it dark and coarse. This dress felt stolen—my tanned, worn skin could never do it justice. I shook my head with a bitter laugh, about to change back into my work clothes.

But then Joe suddenly burst in, grabbed my hand, and pulled me along.

He brought me to the nursery my son had attended at age three. He glanced at his watch, impatience flickering in his eyes.

"So late… why hasn't he come out yet? I'll have to teach him a lesson someday for being so slow."

I turned toward the door.

"This nursery was too expensive. He transferred schools at four."

A shadow of guilt crossed his face. He held my hand tightly.

"Sandra, you've suffered all these years. Now that I'm back, I'll give you and our son a better life. Where is he now? Let's go get him."

I drew a deep breath and pressed the tears down.

"He's too far away… we can't bring him back."

He didn't question me, merely nodded with understanding.

"Good. Without that brat around, we can enjoy some time for ourselves. We'll make it up to him later."

He led me to a high-end restaurant. Before entering, he even explained that he had secretly saved some money over the years to afford this. I forced a stiff smile. There was no need for him to plan and scheme just to fool me.

We had barely sat down when someone I hadn't seen in years appeared in my line of sight: Sofia.

"Sandra? What a coincidence!"

She slid into the seat beside me with an ease that made it clear she felt no boundaries. Across from us, Joe stiffened, awkwardly greeting her.

"Hello, Sofia."

"Joe, go to the front and order us some drinks. We haven't seen each other in years; we have so many secrets to share."

Her voice was soft, almost coquettish, the tone one reserved for a lover.

Joe cleared his throat and rose, leaving her side. Sofia's gentle gaze vanished, replaced by full-on provocation.

"Years apart, and look at you… yellow-faced and haggard? Unlike me, widowed, yes, but I found a husband who loves me even more."

I clenched my fists in silence.

She appraised me from head to toe, her eyes dripping with contempt.

"This dress looks familiar… isn't it the one my husband and I… got messy together and tossed out? Don't tell me you're so poor you'd wear my discarded clothes?"

My face betrayed no emotion, but inside, a storm of bitterness and sorrow raged. Was I truly so cheap in Joe's eyes that even the dress he gave me had belonged to her?

Suddenly, Sofia leaned close, her breath whispering against my ear, "Sandra, everything you once had… now belongs to me. You'll never be able to beat me."

I didn't resist. I knew she was right—I had always been on the losing side.

But in the next second, her nails dug viciously into my thigh. I struggled to push her away, but she pressed harder.

"I want you to remember… what doesn't belong to you will never belong to you!"

Sofia collapsed to the floor with a dark, victorious smile. At the same time, a burning slap landed across my face—Joe had rushed over in a blur.

Even a small scratch on her arm was enough to make Joe lose all sense. Sofia nestled against him, feigning hurt.

"I only complimented you for being thoughtful… and then… Sandra misunderstood me."

Joe spun toward me, his voice cutting, furious.

"Sandra! After all these years, you're still so childish! Sofia's life has been hard enough, and yet you always pick on her! Five years apart, and you've learned nothing!"

At that moment, it felt as if the air itself had frozen. Even when Joe's older brother was alive, he had always favored Sofia.