The lawyer informed me that the process to erase our identities would take two weeks. I only nodded, pretending calm. Two weeks — that was all Sofia and I needed.

We left the lawyer’s office that very afternoon, right after we laid Mateo to rest.

Now, we were back at the Cortez estate, performing our final act as the perfect family. Every smile, every word rehearsed. Because if Marco caught even a whisper of what I was planning — that Sofia and I were preparing to disappear — he would never let us leave alive.

The household staff still watched me with that same hollow pity. I didn’t bother returning their looks. They weren’t the reason I stayed.

On the first day, I began removing every trace of him from our lives — quietly, systematically. His favorite mug vanished from the cupboard. Every playlist he’d ever made me, deleted, including the one we’d danced to at our wedding.

By the second day, I painted over the bedroom walls, stripped the sheets, replaced the curtains, moved the bed to a different corner. Every piece of him erased, every memory repainted.

On the third, I opened the safe. Inside rested the antique watch I had given him on our first anniversary — the one he once swore would be passed down to our son. I took it and sold it to a collector abroad. It wasn’t about the money. It was the satisfaction of knowing he would never touch it again.

When I returned to the mansion, Sofia was waiting in the foyer. But she wasn’t alone. Marco sat there — and beside him, Natalia.

She looked fragile and delicate, draped on the couch beside him like a doll made of glass. Her fingers curled possessively around his arm as if she belonged there, her expression painted with sickly sweetness.

I tightened my grip on Sofia’s hand and started walking past them without saying a word.

“Stop.”

His voice was cold, sharp — a command that sliced through the air.

I halted but didn’t turn.

“Where’s the bastard boy?” Marco asked.

My hand twitched, but I kept my mouth shut. Not in front of Sofia. Not here.

“Where’s Mateo?” he pressed again, his tone heavier, darker.

I still didn’t respond. Sofia’s tiny hand gripped mine tighter. I looked down — her face was too calm for her age. Too practiced. I bent to her level, brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and whispered, “Let’s make something to eat, sweetheart.”

We turned for the kitchen. Before I could reach the doorway, his hand clamped onto my arm and yanked me back.

“Don’t ignore me,” he snarled. “You think you can act like nothing happened? Tell me where my son is!”

I tore my arm from his grasp.

“You told me he wasn’t yours,” I replied coldly. “So why ask now?”

His eyes darkened, fury swirling behind them — but before he could speak, Natalia’s soft, pitiful voice broke the silence.

“Marco, please… you’re scaring her.”

I turned to see her still playing the part — her hand clutching his sleeve, the other pressed to her chest as though the moment pained her fragile heart.

He softened instantly, brushing her hair back. “You always get anxious when I raise my voice,” he murmured gently. “You should rest.”

Then he kissed her forehead. Right there. In front of me.

Sofia didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Just stood silently beside me — a ghost of a child.

I turned away again.

“Isabella,” Marco said, his tone smooth now, deliberate. “Apologize to her. She’s been suffering since you abandoned her in Monochalie. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. You went too far.”

That stopped me.

I faced him, empty-eyed. “And if I don’t?”

Natalia straightened slightly, feigning humility. “It’s fine, Marco… I don’t mind,” she said sweetly, lowering her gaze. “Isabella’s still the lady of the house.”

Her voice trembled like a saint’s, but I caught the smug satisfaction beneath it.

“You’re too kind,” Marco whispered, pressing another kiss to her forehead. “From now on, I’ll make sure you get everything you deserve.”

Pathetic.

A maid entered quietly, carrying a cup. “Chamomile tea for Miss Natalia,” she said politely.

Her favorite. Of course.

I stood there, numb, detached, frozen in place. Then Marco’s phone rang.

“You always get headaches when I talk business,” he told Natalia gently. “I’ll take this outside. Drink your tea.”

And he left.

The moment the door clicked shut, her entire act dissolved. Sofia hid behind my leg. Natalia sat upright, eyes sharp, a smirk twisting her face.

“You see?” she said, her tone light, amused. “You sent me away, but he still chose me.”

I said nothing.

“He holds me now. Loves me now. You’re just a ghost wandering his house.”

I met her gaze, calm and unflinching. “If you want him, Natalia,” I said evenly, “then take him.”

Her face hardened. “I don’t need your permission,” she hissed. “I’ll have it all — him, this mansion, his name. Everything.”

Her voice cracked with anger just as Marco’s footsteps echoed outside. In a flash, she grabbed the cup of scalding tea and poured it over her chest.

Her scream split the air. Sofia cried out too, clutching me in terror.

Marco burst through the door seconds later. Natalia was on the floor, sobbing, drenched, clutching at her clothes.

His eyes snapped to me. “Isabella!”

“I didn’t touch her,” I said, my voice flat. “There are cameras. You can check.”

His face twisted with rage, but before he could speak, Natalia whispered through trembling lips, “It’s not her fault, Marco. I probably spilled it myself… I shouldn’t have come here. I’ll go.”

She tried to step away dramatically, but he caught her wrist. “You’re not leaving. I searched the world for you, and now you think you can walk out again? You want to kill me?”

Then he turned on me, voice sharp with command. “Lock them both in the basement.”

My heart dropped. I stepped in front of Sofia, arms wide. “Please—don’t punish her! Marco, she’s just a child! She’s been through enough!”

He didn’t even glance at me.

Natalia whimpered, clutching his arm like a broken doll. “You saw how she looked at me,” she whispered. “I can’t live like this. I’m scared she’ll hurt me again.”

“You’re lying!” I shouted. “You staged the whole thing!”

“Enough!” His roar silenced everything.

“Check the cameras, Marco!” I begged. “Please. You’ll see the truth.”

“There’s no need,” he said coldly. “She’s the only one I trust.”

My stomach turned to ice. Sofia’s tiny hand trembled in mine.

Natalia’s eyes gleamed. “Take them downstairs,” she said quietly. “No food. No water.”

“Wait!” I screamed. “Not Sofia! Do anything to me, but not her! She’s your daughter—”

“She’s not,” he interrupted, his voice a dead weight.

I froze. Two guards grabbed me from behind. Sofia screamed, clinging to me as they dragged us away.

“Mama! Don’t let them take us!”

“I’m here, baby,” I whispered through tears. “I’m not letting go.”

But they pulled harder. My knees scraped against the floor, my arms aching as I held onto her.

The basement door creaked open — dark, cold, unforgiving.

They shoved us in without a word. The metal slammed shut behind us, sealing us in the dark.

The next morning, the basement door creaked open, letting in a thin sliver of light that stung my eyes. Sofia was trembling against my chest, her lips cracked, her skin ghostly pale. I was barely awake myself, running only on the primal urge to keep her breathing, to keep her safe.

Two guards stood at the doorway, expressionless as statues. One of them spoke flatly, his voice stripped of anything human.

“The boss says next time, you won’t walk out of here on your own legs.”

I didn’t respond. I simply clutched Sofia tighter, whispering soft encouragements as we climbed the stairs—one agonizing step after another. Every part of my body felt heavy and hollow. My throat burned with thirst, my head throbbed, and my pride had already turned to dust. But Sofia was still alive. That was enough.

When we reached our room, I wrapped her in every blanket I could find, pulling her close as I wept silently. My tears soaked her hair.

“I’m sorry,” I kept whispering. “I’m so sorry, my love. Mama’s so sorry…”

Her small eyes looked up at me—dull, weary, but fierce in their quiet courage. I kissed her forehead and murmured against her skin, “We’ll make it through this. I promise. Just hold on for a few more days, okay?”

She gave the faintest nod. And that broke me all over again.

By late afternoon, I made the hardest choice I’d ever faced. I arranged for Sofia to stay with Dr. Mel Reyes, an old friend from my university days—one of the last people I still trusted. Mel lived outside city limits, in a quiet, secure house with her own children. She had warmth, safety, and peace—all the things Sofia deserved.

At first, Sofia refused to leave me. She clung to me, tears streaming down her cheeks. I promised her it was only for a short time, that I would come for her soon. When she finally nodded and hugged me goodbye, it felt like she took my soul with her.

That evening, Marco summoned me. Taylor arrived with a package: a gown of blood-red velvet, open-backed with diamond straps that glittered like mockery. Inside the box was a note written in Marco’s sharp, cold handwriting:

“Auction. Mafia-only. Don’t embarrass me.”

No apology. No explanation for locking his daughter and me in a basement. Just another order. So I went.

The event was held on the top floor of one of his hotels—forty stories high, wrapped in gold and guarded by thirty armed men in black. Every person inside reeked of power and corruption, their wealth dripping with sin. I entered the ballroom carrying his name like a collar around my neck.

Then I saw her.

Natalia. Draped in designer silk, her curls falling perfectly over her shoulders, her lips painted the softest red. She wore confidence like perfume and around her neck—my necklace. The same one Marco had once bought for me, swearing it would be Sofia’s heirloom one day. She wore it as if she owned my place in his life.

I froze just beyond the doorway. Marco stood beside her, sharp in a black suit, hands in his pockets. When he noticed me, that familiar, cruel smirk curved his lips.

“She’s here too?” I said, keeping my voice even. “Then tell me—why am I here?”

He shrugged, tone lazy and dismissive. “Didn’t plan to bring her. But she insisted. Begged me, actually. What was I supposed to do? Say no?”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping low enough for only me to hear. “Don’t be dramatic, Isabella. This isn’t the time for your games.”

My hands curled into fists so tight my nails dug into my palms. Games? I was standing in a den of murderers and traffickers while my husband flaunted his mistress beside him like a prize—and I was the one playing games?

Natalia gave a gentle, knowing laugh, linking her arm through his as though she’d always belonged there. Whispered voices rippled across the room.

“Isn’t that Marco’s wife?”

“Yeah, but that’s the mistress beside him. They say he treats her like a queen. Poor wife doesn’t even share his bed anymore.”

A man turned toward me awkwardly. “Sorry, I thought she was Mrs. Cortez. She’s wearing the diamonds, after all.”

I didn’t flinch. I just walked to my seat, back straight, face blank, absorbing every word, every whisper.

The auction began soon after. I bid occasionally—on antiques, rare art, nothing extravagant. But each time I raised my paddle, Natalia lifted hers a second later, raising my bid by a single dollar. Over and over.

The audience began to laugh softly. “Never seen a mistress taunt a wife in public before.”

I didn’t even blink.

When the next item appeared, I lifted my paddle again. “Open bid,” I said clearly. The room went still. Natalia’s confident smirk faltered.

She turned to Marco, voice small and trembling. “Marco… I really want that one.”

He sighed, irritation flickering across his face. “Isabella,” he warned through gritted teeth, “just let her have it.”

I turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze. “She can’t open-bid,” I replied evenly. “Only I can. Because I’m your wife. Our assets are shared.” Then I looked directly at Natalia. “No matter how much he gives you, sweetheart, you’ll never be me.”

Her cheeks flushed with rage. She shot up from her chair, covering her face with her hands. “I get it,” she sobbed theatrically. “You’re the wife. I’m nothing but a secret. I shouldn’t have come. I just wanted to feel… loved.” Then she turned and ran from the room, all trembling fragility and crocodile tears.

Marco’s face darkened. He grabbed my wrist so hard I felt a sharp crack of pain.

“You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” he hissed. “I told you this thing with her would fade, but you had to provoke her.”

I pulled free, forcing my voice to stay level. “Her tantrum isn’t my concern.”

His jaw tightened. Storms brewed behind his eyes. Then, without another word, he turned and followed her out, leaving me alone in a room thick with whispers and thinly veiled laughter.

---

The shrill buzz of my phone tore me from uneasy sleep hours later. My vision blurred as I grabbed it, the screen glowing with a breaking news alert in bold letters:

BREAKING: ‘299 PRIVATE PHOTOS OF Cortez CEO’S MOTHER-IN-LAW TO BE AUCTIONED TONIGHT!’

My body froze. My chest constricted, my fingers went numb. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. Only one word echoed in my mind—Mom.

Hands trembling, I dialed Marco’s number. It rang twice before his voice answered—cool, bored, unbothered.

“Already up?” he drawled. “Didn’t expect you to see it so soon.”

I could barely speak. “Did you do this?” My voice cracked. “Those photos—they’re of my mother.”

He laughed softly, the sound like venom sliding from his tongue.

“You enjoyed the last auction, didn’t you?” he taunted. “Thought I’d give you something with sentimental value this time.”

I felt the floor tilt beneath me. “Those photos were taken decades ago,” I choked out. “She was working at a club before she got pregnant with me. She quit, started over, worked herself to death just to raise me!”

He cut in, voice sharp and emotionless. “And now she’s gone. She won’t care. Besides, people pay good money for vintage.”

Then another voice entered the line—soft, syrupy, poisonous.

Natalia.

“Marco… is that Isabella again? I… I should go. She sounds upset. I don’t want to be here when she calls,”

Natalia’s nervous whisper carried through the line.

“Hey, don’t talk like that,” Marco replied softly, his tone far too tender for someone speaking about another woman’s husband. “You’ve suffered enough. Let me handle her, alright? I’ll take care of it.”

Then came a sound I’d never forget — the faint brush of lips. A kiss. Maybe on her cheek, maybe on her mouth. Either way, it was enough to make me sick.

And then the call ended.

I sat there, frozen. My lungs forgot how to work. My thoughts scattered like shattered glass.

My mother, the same woman who’d died three years ago of heart failure, had been my strength through everything. She was the type to wash dishes long after midnight, to fall asleep sitting upright at the table, to hide her tears when there wasn’t enough money for my prom dress. And now, Marco — my husband — had dragged her through the mud, desecrated her memory, and turned her into a mockery. All for Natalia.

---

I don’t remember the drive to the auction house. I only remember the moment I stepped inside, my knees nearly giving way.

Then I saw her face.

Younger. Frightened. Forced to pose under unforgiving lights, trying to smile while men circled like vultures. Photos of her from her days working in a club — before I was even born — filled the screens. They were displaying her like she was a collectible, not a person.

“That’s the wife’s mother?” one man murmured.

“Back then, she must’ve been quite the catch,” another chuckled.

“Guess it runs in the blood,” someone else sneered.

Each word cut like glass. Their laughter drowned out the pounding of my heart.

Then, the auctioneer’s cheerful voice sliced through the noise:

“Lot Number One — The legendary Sapphire Queen in her prime! Opening bid: three thousand dollars!”

Sapphire Queen. That was what they used to call her because of the blue gem she wore at the club. She’d never told me why she kept it — now I knew. It wasn’t jewelry. It was armor.

I forced back the bile rising in my throat and raised my paddle.

Every time someone bid, I went higher. Every dollar spent felt like another piece of my soul torn away. By the 299th photo, my hands were trembling, my stomach hollow. I’d reclaimed every image of her — but at what cost?

When I stumbled outside, my phone rang.

I didn’t want to answer. But I did.

Marco’s voice slid through the receiver, cruel and mocking.

“So? How was it? Did you enjoy the show? You’ve always loved auctions — was this one as exciting?”

I said nothing. My fingers ached from how tightly I’d been gripping the paddle.

He sighed, irritated. “Come on, Isabella. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of leaving me over this.”

“Wouldn’t I have every reason to?” I whispered hoarsely.

He laughed — a cold, empty sound. “You can’t divorce me. Not without my consent. You know how this works.”

Silence.

He’d forgotten.

Forgotten that he’d already signed the divorce papers months ago.

Then his tone softened, almost playful. “Consider today a warning. You act up, I remind you who’s in charge. Oh, and my grandfather’s wedding anniversary is tomorrow night. Be ready. You’re coming.”

Before I could respond, the line clicked dead — along with whatever was left of my love for him.

---

The following evening came dressed in silk and menace. The Cortez wedding anniversary — the family’s sacred gathering — was less a celebration and more a demonstration of dominance. Under the chandeliers and crystal glasses were men who’d killed, bribed, and built empires from blood.

Marco arrived in his black Maserati, didn’t bother opening the door. I slid into the passenger seat on my own.

His gaze flicked over me, detached. “You’ve lost weight. Like bamboo — too thin, but hard to break.”

“Didn’t bring Natalia?” I asked, my tone flat.

He tapped his fingers on the wheel. “Not tonight. I’ll keep her away from you from now on. You’ve embarrassed this family enough.”

A small, bitter smile touched my lips. He wasn’t protecting me from her. He was protecting her from me.

As we curved along the highway, he asked, almost casually, “Where are the twins? The old men are bound to ask.”

I didn’t even blink. “Mateo’s gone. Dead. The bomb. You remember that, don’t you?”

He gave a short, cruel laugh. “Still milking that story? Playing the grieving mother — that’s rich.”

I turned my face toward the window, watching the trees smear into green streaks.

There was nothing left in me to grieve. He’d already killed the part of me that could feel pain. He could mock, taunt, desecrate my son’s memory all he wanted.

I’d buried my sorrow.

And soon, I’d bury him too — without ever getting my hands dirty.

+++

The party itself was a theater of masks — silk gowns hiding secrets, polished smiles concealing vendettas. The Cortezs thrived on reputation, legacy, and silent rivalry.

Marco held my hand the moment we entered, pretending affection for the crowd.

His grandfather rose when he saw us, moving slowly but smiling wide.

“Isabella, my dear girl,” he said, kissing both my cheeks. “Still the finest woman in the room. Marco’s lucky, though he doesn’t deserve you.”

I smiled faintly. “Thank you, Grandpa.”

Then came the matriarch — his wife, her sharp eyes raking over me like she was inspecting a stain on her favorite gown.

“You look… tired,” she said, sweetly venomous. “Try to take better care of yourself, dear. People notice these things.”

Marco stayed silent, as always when his family belittled me.

We hadn’t even reached the dining table when Natalia entered, her parents flanking her like proud escorts. She wore white silk — a mockery of purity — and her head tilted just so, the perfect picture of humility.

Her mother’s smile was polished and poisonous. “Mrs. Cortez,” she greeted. “You look… resilient. We were just saying how admirable your strength is.”

Her husband nodded. “You’ve been juggling so much. Especially after everything Natalia’s endured. But she insisted on being here. Such a compassionate girl, isn’t she?”

“She has no bitterness in her heart,” her mother added softly. “An example to all of us.”

Natalia lowered her gaze, the perfect portrait of innocence.

I didn’t dignify them with a word.

I simply walked past — my silence louder than anything I could have said.