I was performing the hundredth "restoration" surgery on my mafia husband's latest mistress when I finally decided to leave him.

For five years, I, Isabella Rossi, have lived a double life: the respected wife of a powerful Don, and the personal physician tasked with "purifying" the women he discards.

Vincent's twisted religious conviction is his law: only a wife untouched by any other man can bear his legitimate heir.

I was that pure wife, yet he treated me as his most unclean possession.

My love for him died a slow death. A thousand empty nights. It was killed by the cold steel of my own operating table. By the sounds of other women boasting about his touch.

The five-year prenuptial agreement that bound me to this hell was set to expire at midnight.

I had already called my grandfather, the only man Vincent truly fears. My escape was hours away.

By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late.

I was performing the hundredth "restoration" surgery on my mafia husband's latest mistress when I finally decided to leave him.

For five years, I, Isabella Rossi, have lived a double life: the respected wife of a powerful Don, and the personal physician tasked with "purifying" the women he discards.

Vincent's twisted religious conviction is his law: only a wife untouched by any other man can bear his legitimate heir.

I was that pure wife, yet he treated me as his most unclean possession.

My love for him died a slow death. A thousand empty nights. It was killed by the cold steel of my own operating table. By the sounds of other women boasting about his touch.

The five-year prenuptial agreement that bound me to this hell was set to expire at midnight.

I had already called my grandfather, the only man Vincent truly fears. My escape was hours away.

By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late.

...

The scent of antiseptic couldn't mask the cloying perfume of the girl in the examination room.

"I heard after five years of marriage, he still hasn't touched you?" the girl, young and blooming like a newly opened rose, preened. "Vincent and I have only been together ten days, and he can't get enough of me. He'd rather have me 'restored' than even glance at you."

I adjusted my white coat, my face a calm mask behind my surgical mask. Dr. Rossi. The head of obstetrics and gynecology at this private hospital owned by the Rossi family. The lawful wife of Vincent Rossi for five years.

"Assume the position for the examination," my voice was flat, routine taking over as I noted the history.

The girl chattered on, detailing the acrobatics and passion of her time with Vincent. I listened, silent, as I had ninety-nine times before. This was the one-hundredth. The one-hundredth little bird Vincent had sent to me for "restoration."

He'd spelled it out during my first, tear-strewn breakdown, his voice deceptively gentle as he cupped my chin.

"Isabella, remember who's keeping your father's company afloat. Be a good wife. Handle this for me. When I find a truly pure woman, one worthy of bearing my legitimate heir, then perhaps I'll consider giving you a child."

His belief was deep-seated, twisted by our religion. It was clear: only an unsullied wife could give him a true successor. He forgot, or didn't care, that I was that woman.

Vincent walked in, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, exuding an air of untouchable power. He handed me a black card. "Make it perfect. She's particular," he said, the transaction as casual as buying a coffee.

This time, I didn't throw the card back in his face. I pocketed it silently. The five-year term stipulated in our prenuptial agreement ended today.

After the procedure, I dialed a secure number. "Grandfather," I said, my voice low. "The flight details are confirmed."

The old man's voice on the other end was like granite. "I'll be waiting, Isabella. It's time to come home."

Vincent was waiting for me outside the OR. "Who was that?" he asked, not looking up from his phone.

"Telemarketer," I murmured, averting my eyes.

He grunted, uninterested. Then he showed me his screen—a delicate diamond necklace.

"What do you think? Sophia would like it, don't you think?" he asked, referring to his latest mistress.

My foolish heart gave a tiny lurch. I had circled that very necklace in a magazine weeks ago. For a fleeting second, I thought... "It's beautiful. She'll love it," I managed to say, my voice steady.

Perhaps surprised by my placidity, Vincent offered to drive me home. "Before Sophia wakes up and misses me," he clarified.

It was the first time in five years I'd been in his car, aside from our wedding day. I moved to adjust the passenger seat, but his hand stopped me.

"Isabella, sit in the back," he said, a fond smile playing on his lips. "Sophia is... possessive. If she knows someone sat in her spot, she'll throw a fit. You understand."

I understood. I slid into the back seat, where a fluffy white stuffed rabbit lay crumpled on the black leather. The scent of Sophia's perfume clung to it.

Vincent caught my gaze in the rearview mirror and laughed. "She's young. Loves these silly cute things."

I looked away, remembering my own youth when I married him. My own brief collection of similar trinkets, swiftly discarded on his suggestion that they were childish and unbefitting of Mrs. Rossi.

The prenup had followed, a cold, clinical document. "Sign this, Isabella. It's business. In five years, we both go our separate ways. But I'll ensure you want for nothing as Mrs. Rossi."

My secret love for him, held for a decade, shattered then and there.

At the mansion, Vincent headed straight for the laundry room. I stared, stunned. "What are you doing? I can handle the laundry."

"Don't bother," he said, already sorting through a delicate pile of silk. "I promised Sophia I'd hand-wash this set myself. She says the machine ruins the lace."

The sting behind my eyes was sharp. I remembered a time I'd been sick, wine spilled on my favorite dress during a rare party we attended.

I couldn't see the stain on the back and asked if he could just wipe it with a wet cloth for me.

He'd frowned. "My hands are for firing guns, Isabella, not for such dirty work."

He'd called a maid, but she arrived too late, and the stain set permanently.

Now, he was carefully soaking and rinsing, a smile on his face all the while.

I couldn't watch. I went upstairs, packed a single bag, and fell into a fitful sleep, only to be shaken awake hours later.

Vincent stood over me, disheveled and frustrated. "Isabella, I can't get it right. The lace is snagging. You do it."

He pulled me down to the laundry room. Several ruined silk garments sat in a basin. The sight sent a fresh, searing pain through my numb heart.

Vincent, who had once refused a simple request to help me, was patiently ruining his hands for another woman.

I took over, moving with practiced ease.

Vincent watched me, and for a moment, it was almost peaceful. When the delicate items were carefully laid out to dry, he brushed a kiss on my forehead. "Thank God for you, Isabella."

Then he was gone, off to his precious Sophia, not noticing the raw skin on my knuckles from the harsh soap.

Later, scrolling through my phone, I saw Sophia's post: "My amazing hubby hand-washed my favorite lingerie! So caring!"

Vincent, who never engaged on social media, had commented with a heart emoji.

Then, a private message popped up from Sophia. "Hey hubby, miss you already! Can't wait for our trip!" It was immediately withdrawn, followed by a voice note. "Oopsies! So sorry, Isabella! Meant to send that to Vincent. Your avatars are so similar! I'll have him change his, don't want any more... mix-ups."

I didn't reply. Vincent would never change the profile picture his late mother had taken. He'd called me sentimental for even suggesting matching avatars once. I'd used a similar picture anyway, and he'd never commented. I took it as silent acceptance.

But when I refreshed his profile, it had changed. To a cartoon graphic of a couple kissing. Matching Sophia's.

My hand trembled. Five years, gone in ten days.

That night, a nightmare of cold, dark rooms and Vincent's retreating back jolted me awake.

The phone rang--the hospital director. "Dr. Rossi! It's Sophia Lombardi! The restoration you performed--there's a severe complication! Get here now!"