He bought her jewelry. Gave her a penthouse uptown. Took her to private parties, dripping in diamonds, while I sat at home stitching lies together for our six-year-old twins. His twins.

They kept asking why Daddy never tucked them in anymore.

And when I cried, when I screamed, when I begged him to choose us over whatever illusion Margot had woven, he just stared through me…cold, detached.

“Stop being so fucking dramatic, Geneva.”

That’s all he said. I wasn’t a wife to him anymore. Just noise. A problem that needed quieting.

So I did what any cornered woman would do.

I sent her out. Margot disappeared, erased from our lives before she could finish tearing apart what little was left of our family.

I thought that would be the end. But instead? He kidnapped our twins.

“She’s in Monochalie,” I said, my voice splintering. “That villa under my name. The one by the lake in Klarevia”

Niccolo didn’t move for a few seconds. He just stared at me, those dark eyes drilling into mine, silent, cold, unreadable.

Then he picked up his phone and made a call.

He didn’t even step out of the room to do it.

After a few words in Italian, he hung up, grabbed his suit jacket, and turned to leave...fast, urgent. Going to get his precious Margot.

I grabbed his sleeve, fingers trembling. “What about the twins? Niccolo!”

He stopped. Turned halfway. His face was stone. “They’re at the old hospital. Eastwood District.” His voice was flat. “Go get them yourself.”

My knees almost buckled.

I didn’t say anything else. I just ran.

I drove so fast my vision blurred, nearly crashed into a truck at an intersection. My heart was beating in my throat, my mind was already there already in that hospital, already pulling them out and wrapping them in my arms.

When I finally got there, the place was dead quiet. Rusted gates, broken glass, old machines half-covered in dust. But inside… I found them.

Eli and Elle.

Tied to chairs. Mouths gagged. Bomb strapped to their chests.

My heart shattered right there.

Elle’s eyes were soaked in tears. Eli looked at me and started shaking his head over and over, as if telling me to run.

“No… no, no, baby…” I rushed forward, hands shaking so badly I couldn’t even grip the damn ropes right.

The timer on the bomb ticked louder than my own breathing. 03:12.

I kept fumbling, crying, doing everything I could to loosen the straps. Elle sobbed beneath the gag. I let go of Elle first and told her to run. She listened. Then I turned to Eli. My brave boy just stared at me.

And then he did something I’ll never forget. He looked straight at me… calm. Too calm.

And then he moved. “I love you, Mommy. Tell Daddy, I love him, too.”

He threw himself forward, hard, toward me. His small body slammed into mine and knocked me back. I fell, hit the concrete, scraped my hands.

“Eli!” I screamed.

But he didn’t stop. He turned… and lunged at the bomb.

“ELI!”

The blast threw me back. My head hit the floor. My ears rang so loud I couldn’t even hear myself scream. Blood poured into my mouth. Smoke choked me. And through it all… I couldn’t hear my son’s voice anymore.

—

I woke up in a hospital bed. Tubes in my arm. Elle beside me, hooked to machines, but breathing. The doctor said we made it out alive.

But not all of us.

Eli was gone.

I knelt beside the hospital bed, forehead pressed against the edge of the mattress where Elle lay, wrapped in bandages and wires.

Tears slid down my cheeks, “I’m so sorry, baby…” I whispered, my voice torn. “Mama chose the wrong man. I thought he’d protect us. I thought he loved us.”

Her eyelids fluttered weakly, “You don’t have to be sorry, Mama…” she mumbled. Her voice was dry and broken. “You’re here now.”

That shattered me. I buried my face in her small hand and cried. I cried until I couldn’t breathe. Until my chest hurt. Until all I could taste was salt and grief.

Eli was gone.

My son. My brave, bright boy. The one who used to call me “soldier mama” when I patched up his scraped knees. The one who used to hum lullabies to his sister when she had bad dreams. The one who shielded her in the end, and paid for it with his life.

I wasn’t strong enough to protect him.

I wasn’t fast enough.

And I let a man like Niccolo Salvacion into our lives, into my body, into my heart thinking he’d be the kind of father he never was.

When I first found out about Margot, I should’ve walked. I did try. Wrote the divorce papers three times. Each time, he tore them up in my face.

"Don’t be dramatic."

"She’s just a toy, Geneva. You’re my home."

"You belong to me. Always."

I begged him to let me go. He never did. Until now.

Now I had something he didn’t remember. Something he signed without reading, back when he still trusted me. One piece of leverage.

---

It happened months ago. Right after our twins got into that elite academy for mafia heirs' children. There was a stack of paperwork, and he was sitting behind his desk, signing with one hand while sipping whiskey with the other.

Margot had walked in mid-way wearing my silk and threw herself into his lap like she owned him. They started kissing right there, right in front of me.

I felt invisible.So I slid the divorce agreement quietly into the pile.

Just one signature.

When I handed him the pen, I said, “The twins’ school needs your signature for the field activity clearance.”

He paused. Squinted at me. “Didn’t I sign something for them already?”

“Just this one more,” I said, calm, collected.

Margot giggled and tugged at his collar. “Come on, Nic, let her finish whatever housewife thing she’s doing. We’ve got plans.”

He scribbled his name across the page without looking and waved me off.

“Go,” he said. “I’m busy.”

He didn’t even notice.

---

And now, a week later, after we buried Eli… just me and Elle, no flowers, no family, no father beside us we walked into that law office hand in hand.

I sat there with her tiny fingers wrapped around mine, while the lawyer flipped through the document, brow raised in surprise.

“This is valid,” he said after a pause. “Legally binding. His signature is here. The divorce is effective immediately.”

But the lawyer told me the identity erasure would take two weeks, I just nodded and said okay. Two weeks. That’s all we needed.

Elle and I left the lawyer’s office the same day we buried Eli.

Now we were back in the Salvacion estate, pretending to be the picture-perfect family for just a little longer. Because if Niccolo suspected anything, if he found out I planned to disappear with Elle... we’d never make it out alive.

The staff still looked at me with pity. I didn’t care. I wasn’t here for them.

I spent the first day emptying the house of him—quietly, methodically. His favorite mug disappeared from the cabinet. I deleted every playlist he ever made me, even the one we danced to at our wedding.

On the second day, I repainted the bedroom. I changed the sheets, replaced the curtains, moved the bed to the opposite wall. Not a single trace of how it used to be.

On the third day, I visited the safe.

Inside was the antique watch I gave him on our first anniversary. The one he said he’d pass down to our son one day. I took it. Sold it to a collector overseas. Not for the money. For the knowledge that it’d never land in his hands again.

When I came back to the mansion, Elle was waiting in the foyer. But so were two other people. Niccolo. And her. Margot.

She was curled up on the couch beside him like some porcelain doll; thin, fragile, the kind of fake sick that men fall for. Her hands wrapped around his arm like she belonged there.

I held Elle’s hand and walked past them without a word.

“Stop,” Niccolo’s voice rang out behind me. Cold. Commanding.

I paused but didn’t turn around.

“Where’s the bastard boy?” he asked.

My hand twitched, but I said nothing. Not here. Not in front of Elle.

“Where’s Eli?” he pressed.

Still, I said nothing. I felt Elle's fingers tighten around mine. I looked down at her. Her face was calm. Too calm for a six-year-old. So I knelt, brushed her hair behind her ear, and said softly, “Come on, let’s go cook something, sweetheart.”

We walked toward the kitchen, but before I could step inside, Niccolo’s hand wrapped around my arm and yanked me back hard.

“Don’t fucking ignore me,” he snapped. “You think you can just act like nothing happened? Where is my son?”

I yanked my arm free.

“You said he wasn’t yours,” I said flatly. “So why are you asking now?”

He glared at me. But before he could say anything else, Margot’s voice came in, soft and pitiful.

“Niccolo, don’t… you’re scaring her.”

I turned. Margot was curled up on the couch like some frail little thing, one hand clutching his sleeve, the other resting over her heart as if it was all too much for her.

He softened immediately.

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

He kissed the top of her head. Right in front of me.

Elle watched in silence. Not a sound. She just stood beside me like a ghost.

I turned to leave again.

Then Niccolo said it—real smooth, real slow:

“Geneva, apologize to her. She’s been suffering ever since you dumped her in Monochalie. She couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. You went too far.”

That made me stop.

I turned, expression empty. “And if I don’t?”

Margot straightened slightly, eyes glistening like she was about to cry but I saw the smirk underneath. “It’s okay, Niccolo… I don’t mind. Geneva’s still the lady of the house.”

She looked down shyly, but I caught the flicker of smugness in her eyes.

Niccolo kissed her forehead. “You’re too kind. From now on, I’ll spoil you. You don’t have to take anything from anyone.”

I nearly laughed. It was pathetic. A joke.

Just then, a maid brought in a cup of chamomile tea.

“For Miss Margot,” she said politely.

Chamomile. Her favorite.

I stood there, cold, blank, dead inside. Then his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen. “You always get headaches when I talk business around you,” he whispered to Margot. “I’ll take this outside. Drink your tea.”

And just like that, he left. The moment the door closed, Margot’s whole act dropped. Elle hiding behind my leg. Margot sitting on that damn couch like a queen.

“See that?” she said with a light laugh. “You sent me away, but he still chose me.”

I said nothing.

“He holds me now. Loves me now. You’re just a ghost in this house.”

I looked at her, calm. Empty. “If you want him, Margot,” I said, “then take him.”

She blinked, like I’d slapped her. “I don’t need your permission!” she snapped. “I’ll have everything—him, this house, his name...everything!”

Her voice grew louder, panicked. Then Niccolo’s footsteps echoed outside. She acted fast. Grabbed the scalding tea and poured it over her own chest. Screamed. Elle screamed too, clutching my leg. Niccolo burst in seconds later. Margot was on the floor, sobbing, clothes soaked.

His eyes locked on me.

“Geneva!”

“I didn’t touch her,” I said flatly. “There are cameras. Check them.”

He looked ready to kill. But before he could speak, Margot gasped through fake tears, “It’s not her fault, Niccolo. I just... I probably spilled it myself. I shouldn’t have tried to stay here… I’ll go.”

She stepped forward dramatically.

He caught her wrist. “You’re not going anywhere. I searched every corner of this planet for you, and now you think you can walk out again? You trying to kill me?” Then he looked at me. “Lock them both in the basement.”

My heart stopped. I stepped in front of Elle instantly, arms stretched wide. “No—no, please, don’t punish her! Niccolo, she’s just a child! She’s been through too much already!”

He didn’t even look at me.

Margot, still clinging to his arm like some bruised porcelain doll, gave a little whimper. “You saw how she looked at me… I can’t live like this, Niccolo. I’m scared she’ll hurt me again…”

“You’re overthinking it,” I snapped. “You faked the entire thing!”

“Enough!” His voice cut through the air.

I turned to him, desperate. “Check the damn cameras. Please. Just check them.”

“There’s no need,” he said, eyes like ice. “She’s the only person I trust.”

My stomach twisted. Elle gripped my hand tighter.

Margot turned, her voice suddenly steady—too steady. “Drag them down. No food. No water.”

“Wait! Niccolo!” I screamed. “Not Elle. Do whatever the hell you want to me, but not her! She’s your daughter—”

“She’s not,” he said flatly.

That silenced me. Two of his men grabbed me. Elle screamed and clung to my waist, sobbing.

“Mama! Don’t let them—”

“I’m right here, baby. I won’t let go,” I said, holding her tight even as they yanked us both down the hall. My knees scraped the floor. My arms burned. Elle cried into my shirt.

The basement door creaked open. Dark, damp, and cruel. They shoved us inside like we were garbage. Then the door slammed shut.

They opened the basement door the next morning. Elle was shivering in my arms, her lips cracked, cheeks pale. I was barely conscious, running on nothing but instinct and the will to protect what little I had left.

Two bodyguards stood at the door. One of them spoke without emotion. “Boss says next time, you won’t leave with your legs still attached.”

I said nothing. Just clutched Elle tighter and helped her up the stairs, one shaky step at a time. My limbs felt like iron. My mouth was dry. My pride was ash. But Elle was alive. That was all that mattered.

We reached our room. I wrapped her in every blanket I could find, holding her close while tears slipped silently down my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, over and over. “Mama’s so sorry, baby…” She looked up at me, eyes dull but brave. I kissed her forehead, pressing promises into her skin. “I’ll fix this. I swear to you. Just a few more days, okay? Just a few more.” She nodded. That broke me all over again.

By that afternoon, I made arrangements. I sent her to stay with Dr. Mel Reyes—a friend from my university days, one of the few people I still trusted. She had kids, a safe house outside city borders, and the kind of warmth Elle hadn’t felt in a long time. Elle didn’t want to leave me at first. But when I told her it was just for a little while, that we’d meet again soon, she finally agreed. She hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. And when she let go, I felt like a part of my soul left with her.

That night, Niccolo summoned me. Taylor delivered a dress. Blood-red velvet, low back, diamond straps. Along with it came a note in Niccolo’s handwriting:

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

That was it. No apology. No mention of locking his daughter in a basement. Just a command. I showed up.

The event was held in one of Niccolo’s luxury hotels—top floor, secured by at least thirty men in black, all armed and silent. Every face inside belonged to someone who had blood on their hands and power stitched into their veins. I walked in wearing his name like a chain around my neck.

And then I saw her. Margot. Wearing haute couture and smugness like perfume. Her makeup soft, her curls perfect, and around her neck was my necklace. Yhe one Niccolo once bid eight figures for, said he wanted our daughter to inherit someday. She wore it like she owned him.

I stopped just short of entering the ballroom. Niccolo stood beside her, hands in his pockets, suit crisp and dark. The second he saw me, his lips curled into that cold smirk he always wore when he thought he had control.

“She’s here too,” I said, my voice steady. “So what the hell do you need me for?” He glanced at Margot, then back at me with that gravel-deep voice of his. “Didn’t plan on bringing her. But she wanted to come. She begged. What was I supposed to do? Say no?” He stepped closer, lowering his tone just enough for me to hear. “Geneva, don’t be fuckin’ petty. This ain’t the time.”

My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms. Petty? I was standing in a room full of murderers and traffickers, being paraded beside my husband while his mistress flaunted my life in front of the entire underworld and I was petty?

Margot gave a soft giggle, linking her arm with Niccolo’s like she was born there. The whispers started before I even made it ten steps.

“Isn’t that Niccolo’s wife? Then who’s that beside him?”

“Oh, that’s the mistress. They say he treats her like royalty. Heard the wife got kicked out of his bed months ago.”

Someone turned and smiled awkwardly at me. “Sorry. I thought she was Mrs. Salvacion… I mean, she’s wearing the real diamonds.”

I said nothing. Just walked to my seat like I couldn’t hear a thing. But inside? I was collecting every word. Every look. Every breath.

The auction began. I raised my paddle a few times… for antiques, small treasures, nothing too flashy. But every damn time, Margot lifted her paddle too, raising my bid by a single dollar. Over. And over.

People started laughing. “First time I’ve seen a mistress bully a wife in public…” I didn’t even blink.

Then I raised my hand again. “Open bid,” I told the auctioneer. The entire room stilled. Margot’s smile faltered.

“Niccolo…” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. “I really want that piece…”

Niccolo looked at me. His jaw ticked. “Geneva,” he growled, “just let her have it.”

I looked straight at him, my voice sharp but calm. “She can’t open-bid. I can. Because I’m your wife. We share assets.” Then I turned to Margot. “No matter how much he gives you, sweetheart, you’ll never be me.”

Her eyes flared with red, but she stood quickly and covered her face. “I get it,” she sobbed. “You’re the wife, I’m just some shameful secret. I never should’ve come. I just wanted to feel… loved.” She turned and ran, dramatic and fragile and fake to her core.

Niccolo glared at me and grabbed my wrist so hard I swore I heard something crack. “You just couldn’t fucking help yourself, huh?” he hissed. “I told you this thing with her would pass but now you’ve gone and pushed her away.”

I yanked my wrist back. “Whether she stays or leaves… what’s that got to do with me?” His eyes darkened. A storm without mercy.

Then he turned and stormed out after her, leaving me in the center of a room filled with mockery and knives behind smiles.

---

The sharp buzz of my phone jolted me awake.

A breaking news alert flashed across the screen—bold, vulgar, and soul-crushing.

BREAKING: “299 PRIVATE PHOTOS OF SALVACION CEO’S MOTHER-IN-LAW TO BE AUCTIONED TONIGHT!”

For a few seconds, I couldn’t move. The breath caught in my throat. My fingers went numb. My vision blurred. Only one word repeated in my mind—Mom.

With trembling hands, I called Niccolo. It rang once. Twice. Then he answered, voice casual, cold, bored.

“Already awake? That was fast.”

I didn’t even greet him. “Did you do this?” My voice cracked. “Those photos… they’re of my mom.”

He laughed.

“Didn’t you enjoy that last auction so much?” his oice laced with cruel amusement. “Thought I’d give you something more meaningful to bid on this time.”

My stomach twisted. I could barely stand.

“They were taken years ago,” I whispered. “She was working in a club… she got pregnant with me and quit. She raised me alone. She worked three fucking jobs just to keep me alive—!”

“And now she’s dead,” he cut in coolly. “She won’t mind. Besides, the crowd loves vintage.”

Then came her voice.

Margot’s fake, breathy sweetness oozed into the call.