His Unwanted Wife Is Another Man's Treasure

The exact moment Marcus Thorne, the most violent Capo on the East Coast, chose to leave our anniversary dinner to answer his mistress's call, I didn't cry.

"Business," he rumbled, ignoring the untouched meal I had cooked.

"Don't cause a scene, Ellie," he commanded before walking out the door.

I later found out his "business" was a polo match with Izzy. She posted a photo of them laughing, her hand on his chest, wearing the shirt I bought him.

When I tried to leave, he humiliated me publicly. He kissed her on stage at a gala, just to prove he could. He told his men I was merely acting out.

"Ellie is the furniture," he laughed. "You don't throw away antique furniture just because you bought a new TV."

But the final blow came when a bomb detonated at a family gathering.

Marcus didn't look for me. He dove to cover Izzy with his body.

He actually stepped over my bleeding leg to carry her to safety, leaving me in the dust and debris.

He thought I was trapped. He thought I was dependent on his money and his name. He thought I would be waiting at home when he was done playing hero.

He was wrong.

I signed the divorce papers, destroyed my wedding ring, and boarded a one-way flight to Italy.

Three months later, when he finally tracked me down in Tuscany, he fell to his knees in the street, begging me to come back.

But I just held the hand of the man standing next to me—a man who treated me like a partner, not a prop.

"You are trespassing," I said coldly.

"Go home, Marcus."

Chapter 1

Ellie Vance POV

The exact moment Marcus Thorne, the most violent Capo on the East Coast, chose to leave our anniversary dinner to answer his mistress's call, I didn't cry.

Instead, a cold clarity washed over me. I realized my life wasn't a fairytale; it was a hit job, and I was the target.

I sat at the head of the mahogany table, surrounded by the predators of the New York underworld. The crystal chandelier overhead likely cost more than an average annual salary, yet it failed to outshine the cold, heavy stone weighing down my left hand.

A diamond that felt less like a promise and more like a shackle.

Marcus stood up. The scrape of his chair against the floor echoed like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the room.

"Business," he said. His voice was a low rumble, the kind that usually made my stomach flip with desire. Tonight, it just made me feel sick.

He didn't look at me. His eyes were fixed on his phone.

Three years ago, this man had looked me in the eyes in the secret garden of the Thorne estate. His hands, stained with the blood of his enemies, had cupped my face with a gentleness that terrified me.

"I will burn the world before I let anything hurt you, Ellie," he had sworn. "You are mine to protect."

I had believed him. I was the daughter of the Vance family; he was the heir to the Thorne empire. Our union was supposed to be the steel beam holding up the bridge between two criminal dynasties. I thought I was the prize. I thought I was his light.

I was a fool.

"Marcus," his father rumbled from the other end of the table. "Sit down. It's your anniversary."

Marcus glanced at the screen again. I knew who it was. Izzy. The 'consultant' I met at the charity auction last month. The woman with lips painted the color of arterial spray and eyes that dissected me and found me wanting.

"It's a crisis," Marcus said, his jaw tight. "I have to go."

He walked over to me. The room held its breath. My uncles, his cousins, the soldiers lining the walls-they all watched. This was theater. This was power.

He placed a hand on my shoulder. His grip was firm, possessive, yet completely devoid of warmth.

"Be good, Ellie," he whispered, loud enough for the table to hear. "Don't cause a scene. Stay here and don't make trouble for me."

It wasn't an apology. It was a command.

He turned and strode out. The heavy double doors slammed shut, sealing my humiliation inside.

I looked down at the empty chair beside me. The plate of untouched osso buco-his favorite-steamed mockingly.

Across the table, my cousin smirked. My mother-in-law looked down at her lap, feigning interest in her napkin. The pity in the room was a physical weight, pressing against my chest, crushing my lungs.

They knew. Everyone knew.

For months, I had been the dutiful wife. I designed the interiors of the family's "legitimate" hotels, pretending my art mattered, pretending I was needed. I stayed up late in my studio, painting shadows, while Marcus stayed out late "handling business."

I had cooked this dinner. I had worn the dress he liked. I had tried to talk to him this morning, only to be cut off by the buzzing of his phone and his impatient sigh.

"I'm busy, Ellie. Izzy needs help with the gala logistics."

Izzy needed him. I needed him. He chose her.

The silence in the dining room stretched until it snapped something inside me.

I stood up. My legs shook, but I locked my knees.

"Ellie, sit," my father hissed.

"No," I said. The word tasted foreign, like ash.

I looked at the empty doorway. The ghost of Marcus-the man I thought loved me-lingered there. But the man who just walked out? He was a stranger. He was a businessman, and I was just a depreciating asset.

I wasn't a wife. I was a political bridge. And bridges are made to be walked on.

I turned and walked out the side door, into the cold night air. I didn't go to our bedroom. I went to my studio.

I grabbed a canvas. It was a portrait of us, half-finished. I snatched a palette knife.

With a scream that no one heard, I slashed the canvas. Once. Twice. Again and again, until the image of Marcus Thorne was nothing but ribbons of paint and fabric.

I walked over to the desk and swept the blueprints for the new Thorne hotel onto the floor. I grabbed a lighter.

The flame flickered, small and insignificant against the darkness of the mafia world. But as I held it to the corner of the architectural drawings-the designs Marcus claimed to love-I felt a spark of something else.

It wasn't sadness. It was the ignition of hate.

I pulled the necklace off my neck-the platinum chain he gave me on our wedding night. I squeezed it until the metal bit into my palm.

I walked to the trash can in the corner and dropped it in. The clink of the metal hitting the bottom was the loudest sound I had ever heard.