Erasing the Future Donna

"Isolde, this is the contract for your death. Two weeks from now, during the Vittorio family's engagement ceremony, you will die."

"You will perish in a staged car accident, your car plunging into the Hudson. It will be ruled an accident."

When my fiancé, Lorenzo, ditched me once again for so-called "urgent family business," I found the underworld broker known as the "Ghost." Without a moment's hesitation, I signed the agreement.

The entire New York underworld believed that Lorenzo, the heir to the Vittorio family, was madly in love with me.

He certainly played the part, never forgetting the tender kiss he’d press to my forehead each time he left.

But I was the only one who knew that after the thirty-ninth time he kissed me goodbye, he spent the night with that stripper, Roxy, lost in a haze of drugs and alcohol.

But none of that matters now. I'm done with him. A man so tainted is no longer mine to claim.

At the engagement ceremony he cherishes so much, I will give him the perfect corpse he deserves.

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1

The thirty-ninth time my fiancé, the man I grew up with, abandoned me for "urgent family business" was the day I signed the contract to fake my own death.

While Lorenzo was off with a stripper, he had no idea that in two weeks, at his own engagement party, he’d be greeting the perfect corpse of his fiancée.

"Isolde, please confirm the details."

"The target is you. Sign here."

I nodded, signing my name on the document. Before the ink could dry, the man they called the "Ghost" snatched it from my hand.

Stepping out of the dark alley, I was swallowed by the bustling crowds of Times Square.

A colossal electronic billboard hung suspended over the street, replaying the moment Lorenzo proposed to me.

The entire New York underworld called it the "proposal of the century."

In the video, the formidable heir to the Vittorio family was down on one knee. This man, usually so cold and decisive, was holding a pigeon's blood ruby ring, his hand trembling.

The moment I whispered "I do," his eyes welled with tears, as if he’d just been handed the world.

A few young girls nearby clutched each other's arms, their voices dripping with envy. "Oh my God, he loves her so much!"

"Seriously! They're a total power couple, blessed by God. I heard he knew she was the one at seventeen and turned down every other girl his family threw at him."

"And didn't he take over three blocks from the Irish just for her? He bought her that mansion on the Palisades with the profits, declaring she would be its mistress forever."

"How can any man be that devoted?"

I tuned them out, looking down to hide the bitter smile twisting my lips.

Everyone envied me. They all said Lorenzo and I were a perfect match.

I used to think so, too.

Until the encrypted files on my phone ripped open the bloody truth and laid it bare.

No one could imagine that a man like him, a future Don, would keep a stripper as his secret lover for three years.

Every time I watched the anonymously sent videos of him tangled up with Roxy on nights he claimed to be "handling family business," it felt like a bullet tearing through my heart.

From that moment on, a rot began to set in, the stench of drugs and sordid affairs clinging to him.

I was born with an intuition for the darkness in people.

I had tried to love him back from the brink, only to be met with impatience, my own hope eroding with each attempt.

I confronted Lorenzo, but he brushed me off, telling me I was being hysterical.

As I stared at the provocative photos she sent, I was suddenly reminded of the night of my fifteenth birthday. My parents had abandoned me, and I was curled up in a dilapidated apartment, waiting for death in the pouring rain. Then Lorenzo kicked open the door, pulled me into his arms, and declared, "They don't want you, but I do."

He used to remember every little thing about me. Now, he whispered my private pet name—"my morning star"—to Roxy in bed while playing the devoted fiancé to the world.

Even as he placed the ring on my finger, he had pleaded, his eyes wet with tears, "Isolde, you are my life. Don't you ever leave me, or I'll go mad."

He was the one who said he couldn't live without me, yet he was the first to break his vow.

I wiped the moisture from the corner of my eye. Just as I was about to turn away, a black armored sedan roared to a halt in front of me.

The door swung open, and a tall figure emerged, his presence so powerful it was almost suffocating.

"Isolde, I thought we agreed you'd wait for me at home. I was going to pick you up to try on engagement gowns after I handled the mess at the docks. What are you doing out here alone?"

Lorenzo seized my hand, his touch searing.

That familiar heat, which once offered comfort, now felt like a brand on my skin.

He shrugged off his coat, the scent of expensive cologne wafting from it, and draped it over my shoulders. His tone was a mixture of anxiety and reprimand. "Your hands are freezing. Are you trying to worry me sick?"

I didn't speak. I just watched him, my gaze quiet.

The concern in his eyes seemed so genuine. That’s why I could never understand it. How could he claim to love me so deeply while being hopelessly addicted to the sordid touch of that stripper?

"It's Lorenzo and Principessa Isolde!"

The girls on the sidewalk recognized us and shrieked with excitement, crowding around.

"Lorenzo! We're your biggest fans! Can we get a picture?"

Their faces were flushed, their eyes shining with a desperate longing for a love like ours.

Lorenzo usually detested scenes like this, but today he tightened his arm around me, pulling me flush against his side and offering the camera an indulgent smile.

After the photo, the girls were still chattering. "May you two have a long and happy life together! You must be the happiest couple in all of New York!"

I looked up at Lorenzo. The moment our eyes met, his lips curled into an indulgent smile, his gaze softening as if I were his entire world.

As if he agreed with every word.

Only I knew we would never grow old together.

I had just stepped out of the car in front of the Vera Wang bridal shop when the waiting designer scurried over, her voice practically singing with envy.

"Miss Isolde, the future Donna, the twelve custom gowns Mr. Vittorio ordered are all ready. Every last one is hand-stitched with real diamonds."

I didn't move. I just looked at the man beside me.

Lorenzo wasn't looking at the gowns.

He was staring at his phone.

The screen’s pale light cast his face in shadow, and that murky, irrepressible desire flickered in his eyes again.

A sharp pain lanced through my heart.

I knew that look. It was the same one he wore in every disgusting, private video with Roxy.

He noticed my stare and quickly pocketed his phone. The lust in his eyes vanished, replaced in a heartbeat by an apologetic smile.

The transition was seamless.

"I'm sorry, Isolde." He caressed my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. "The family just called an urgent meeting. Someone’s making trouble on our turf, and I have to handle it personally."

"Then go," I said, my voice flat.

He let out a quiet, relieved sigh and pressed a hot kiss to my forehead. "Be a good girl and try on the gowns. Pick whichever one you love. I'll have the driver take you home when you're done."

With that, he turned and climbed back into the car.

The engine roared to life. He sped off as if fleeing a fire, rushing to his "urgent meeting."

Or rather, rushing to Roxy's bed.

The designer stepped forward, asking cautiously, "Miss Isolde, shall we begin the fitting?"

I pulled my gaze back, looking at the rows of impossibly decadent gowns, each one a testament to the Vittorio family's power.

I shook my head.

"No. We're not."

"I don't want any of them."

It didn't matter. For the grand engagement ceremony, all he would have was a dead fiancée.