His 99th Lover Took My Ring, So I Took My Last Breath

The waiter asked if I was dining alone, and across the room my husband froze with another woman's dessert still on his lips.

Eight years married, and Francesco Greco had never once posed for a photo with me.

He posed for Selena.

I watched her feed him seafood he was allergic to, watched him laugh, watched the wedding ring he designed for one month glinting on her finger instead of mine.

I had mortgaged my dowry apartment to cover two million of his family's debt, and he gave my ring to his ninety-ninth lover like it was a party favor.

So I smiled.

At the auction the next day, my own moans — faked, spliced, weaponized — blared through the hall while Selena wept into his chest and pointed at me.

He auctioned my nude photos to a stranger for one dollar.

He never asked if the baby growing inside me was his.

He locked me in a car that reeked of gasoline and walked away to save her.

The flames took everything but one burned shoe.

They found that shoe on the overpass and called it a body.

Francesco thought he had buried his wife.

He had no idea what I'd do with the eight years he stole.

***

"Signorina, table for one?" the waiter asked, holding a leather-bound menu against his chest.

I did not answer. My eyes locked onto the corner booth across the dining room.

Francesco sat there. My husband of eight years.

A massive seafood tower dominated his table. Oysters, lobster claws, shrimp on a bed of crushed ice. Francesco was deathly allergic to shellfish. Yet, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the white linen, his gaze entirely focused on the woman across from him.

Selena. Mistress number ninety-nine.

She held a silver fork. On the tines sat a bite of tiramisu, half-eaten, the mascarpone melting slightly under the restaurant's warm lights. She extended her hand, pressing the sweet directly against Francesco's lips.

He did not pull away. Instead, a faint redness crept up his neck, dusting his cheeks. He opened his mouth and took the bite.

My fingers dug into the mahogany back of the empty chair beside me. The wood bit into my skin.

Selena giggled, withdrawing the fork. As her hand moved under the chandelier, a diamond caught the light.

My wedding ring.

A custom-cut teardrop diamond. Eight years ago, Francesco spent an entire month sketching that design. He slipped it onto my bare finger in a candlelit garden.

"The only one in this life, Mia," he had sworn.

Those words echoed in my skull, sour and hollow. By our second anniversary, his empty promises littered our home. Perfume on the sofa. Lipstick on his study desk. I had mortgaged my dowry apartment, draining every cent I owned to cover a two-million-dollar debt for the Greco family. I saved his empire. In return, the only thing I kept close was that ring.

Now, it sparkled on Selena's finger.

Francesco turned his head. His eyes met mine across the crowded room.

The blush faded from his face, replaced by a cool, flat stare. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, tossed it onto the table, and stood up. He smoothed the lapels of his tailored navy suit as he closed the distance between us.

He stopped two feet away, towering over me. He grabbed the chair I was gripping and pulled it out.

"Since you're here, sit together," he said. His tone held no guilt. Only a lazy, grating charity.

I stared at the empty seat. Then I looked at his face. The man who refused to take a single photograph with me for a decade was currently risking anaphylactic shock just to humor another woman.

"I didn't come here to third-wheel my own husband," I replied, keeping my voice flat.

"Mia." His tone dropped, laced with warning. "Don't start. I'm offering you a seat. Take it."

"And eat what? The shellfish that could kill you, or the dessert she already chewed?"

His eyes narrowed. "Selena wanted seafood. I brought her. It's just dinner."

"It's my wedding ring on her finger," I pointed out.

He did not even flinch. He just shoved his hands into his pockets. "She liked the cut. I let her try it on. You haven't worn it in months anyway."

"Because I kept it in a safe," I said. "Because it was the only thing I had left after paying off your two-million-dollar mistake."

"And I thanked you for it. Now, sit down and stop embarrassing yourself."

I shook my head. "You two continue. I'll eat alone."

I turned to the waiter, who stood frozen, his eyes wide.

"Show me to my table, please," I instructed.

The waiter hurried ahead, leading me to a small two-seater near the kitchen doors. Far away from the corner booth.

I sat down and ordered a glass of ice water. Nothing else.

Across the room, Francesco had returned to Selena. She reached across the table, tracing a manicured nail down his forearm. He chuckled.

I watched the half-melted dessert sit abandoned on their table.

For ten years, I begged him for a scrap of his time. A weekend getaway. A dinner where he didn't check his phone. A single photo to prove we existed as a couple. He always claimed he hated cameras, hated sweets, hated public displays.

Now, he broke every rule for her.

An hour passed. I hadn't touched the complimentary bread.

Movement caught my peripheral vision. Francesco was walking toward the exit, Selena waiting near the coat check.

He didn't walk straight to the door. He detoured, his leather shoes silent on the carpet, stopping right beside my small table.

He leaned down. The scent of expensive cologne and faint vanilla brushed against my face.

"Mia, your temper has improved lately," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, mocking whisper. "As long as you behave, you're still the future matriarch of the Greco family."

I picked up my water glass. The condensation chilled my palm. I didn't drink.

I just sat there, staring into the clear liquid, listening to his footsteps fade away, counting silently in my head to the eighth year.