I grew up inside an orphanage owned and funded by the Family, a quiet institution hidden behind iron gates and thick stone walls meant to keep the world—and its dangers—out. I spent most of my childhood sitting in the courtyard with borrowed paints, working beneath the open sky, imagining a future far beyond the reach of the Corell syndicate. I dreamed that one day someone powerful would notice my talent, take me under their wing, and allow me to pursue art without fear or obligation.

More than anything, I wanted to be a painter of consequence—to make a name for myself, to build a gallery that belonged solely to me, a place where my work could exist freely without bearing another person’s shadow.

After I completed the orphanage’s formal education program, fate intervened in the form of a formidable woman: the matriarch of the Corell crime family. She summoned me personally and offered what felt like an impossible gift. She would finance my education at the Accademia di Belle Arti di Firenze—one of the most elite art institutions in the country.

There was, of course, a price.

In exchange, I would be bound to her son, Zaldy Corell—the future Don. He was five years older than me, hardened by loss, and still openly haunted by the woman who had left him years earlier. Maria Lee had gone to Paris, where she refined her influence, sharpened her ambitions, and elevated her status among Europe’s elite criminal circles.

I hesitated. I was barely eighteen. Zaldy was twenty-three and already feared within the organization.

“Does he know about this arrangement?” I asked quietly, my fingers clenched in my lap.

“Yes,” the matriarch replied after a pause. Her gaze softened just enough to disarm me. “He has agreed.”

Out of gratitude—and obligation—I accepted. She had been the only source of kindness I’d ever known, the only person who saw something worthwhile in me. Refusing her felt impossible.

Zaldy and I entered the arrangement as strangers, not lovers. Still, I clung to the naïve belief that time might soften him, that proximity could become affection. While studying, I worked relentlessly to build independence—applying for grants, selling paintings to private collectors, and doing everything in my power not to rely on Corell money.

None of it mattered.

To Zaldy, I was an inconvenience. He remained distant, emotionally sealed off, acknowledging my existence only when required. I wasn’t his partner—I was a tolerated fixture in his household.

At our formal union ceremony, he offered no tenderness. The moment the vows were completed, he turned away. On the rare nights he came to my room, alcohol clung to him. His touch was mechanical, empty—never affectionate, always a reminder that my presence in his life was an obligation, not a choice.

One night, he staggered in late, leaning heavily against the doorframe, his eyes dull and unfocused.

“Sami,” he slurred, smirking faintly, “why do you never come see me?”

“You’ve never asked,” I answered carefully. “And let’s not pretend this arrangement was ever something either of us wanted.”

He laughed sharply and crossed the room, grabbing my arm with careless force. “You’re here because of my mother,” he said coldly. “Without her, you’d be nothing.”

“Yes, Zaldy,” I whispered, swallowing the sting in my throat. “I know.”

The years passed like that. I endured everything out of loyalty to his mother—the woman who had saved me from obscurity. I even declined an offer to study abroad, afraid it would disappoint her.

No matter what I accomplished, I could never displace the ghost of Maria Lee. I was a stand-in. A shadow occupying a space meant for someone else.

After one particularly brutal argument, something inside me finally settled. My mentor’s words resurfaced in my mind.

The fellowship is yours if you want it. Italy is waiting.

It wasn’t just an opportunity—it was a way out. A door opening after years spent trapped in a life that was never truly mine. That night, I made my decision.

The next morning, Zaldy barely acknowledged me at breakfast. His attention was fixed on his phone, messages scrolling endlessly across the screen. Whatever tension lingered from the night before had already vanished from his mind.

I cleared my throat. “Zaldy,” I said quietly, “what would you think if I pursued my master’s degree in Italy?”

He waved a dismissive hand without looking up. “Do whatever you want.”

I steadied myself. “And if I’ll be gone long-term…should we dissolve this arrangement?”

For the briefest moment, I hoped he would react—question me, object, feel something.

He didn’t.

“That’s fine,” he muttered, still scrolling.

Relief and heartbreak collided in my chest. The truth was undeniable now. I had never mattered.

He hadn’t noticed when I stopped managing his schedule, preparing his suits, or handling his personal affairs. I’d quietly passed those responsibilities to the household staff, and he never questioned it.

“Very well,” I said, standing. My plate remained untouched. Hunger had abandoned me entirely.

My gaze fell on his phone just as a notification lit up the screen. The contact name glowed unmistakably.

The name burned into me. Every ounce of his loyalty, his attention, his devotion—it all belonged to her.

The phone rang. He answered instantly.

“I’ll be there shortly,” he said, his tone obedient, gentle, unwavering.

I smiled bitterly.

At last, I understood the role I had always played in his life—unseen, replaceable, and never truly claimed by the man I once loved.

After breakfast, I made my way to the academy for the graduation ceremony, my emotions tangled between pride and a sharp, gnawing ache.

This day marked the culmination of years spent at the Accademia di Belle Arti di Firenze—a path I had devoted my every thought, every brushstroke, and every late-night hour to. Soon, I would leave for Italy, to carve out a life that belonged entirely to me, away from the influence of the Corell family.

But as I stood there, diploma in hand, surrounded by a throng of students and their families, the familiar sting of solitude crept in.

Around me, families celebrated their protégés, snapping photos, laughter spilling over the square. It was a day designed for shared joy—but I moved through it like a ghost, a lone figure among tightly knit factions.

I shook my head and forced a smile. “This is how it always is, Sami,” I murmured to myself, drawing a steadying breath. “No need to mourn that Zaldy isn’t here.”

It was just another day alone, after all.

Fortune intervened in the form of my mentor, the one who had first given me a shot at recognition beyond the orphanage walls. His eyes lit up when he saw me, pride radiating as he congratulated me for earning the scholarship. He insisted on a celebratory lunch afterward, a gesture that felt like sunlight breaking through a storm.

“Italy will change you, Sami,” he said, voice bright and certain. “I want to see the artist you’re destined to become.”

“Thank you, Professor,” I replied, a genuine smile lifting my features.

His words soothed me, a spark of hope in a world that had often felt unkind. But as I left the academy and drove home, a shadow of doubt crept back in.

I watched the courthouse pass by from the car window, a looming reminder of the pending divorce I had yet to finalize. For a fleeting second, I considered ordering the driver to stop, to take action immediately. But the thought of Zaldy’s mother—the formidable matriarch—stopped me. How would she react if I acted rashly?

I exhaled, letting the hesitation pass.

Then my phone buzzed. Her name appeared on the screen.

“Sami, darling!” she chimed, her voice warm and melodic. “Congratulations! You’ve worked so hard. Let’s celebrate—just you and me, a proper day of shopping.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I said, directing the driver back to the manor to pick her up.

When I saw her waiting, anger toward Zaldy softened, replaced by a quiet warmth. Despite everything, his mother had always treated me with kindness. Being with her reminded me that I still had a place in a family somewhere in this fractured world.

We spent hours wandering the shops, chatting like companions from a simpler time, and she ensured I didn’t leave empty-handed.

While she examined a designer bag, I scrolled through my phone—and froze.

A post from Maria appeared: New York Fashion Week. Zaldy stood beside her, arm linked with hers, both smiling as if nothing in the world existed beyond the frame.

The caption read: [So glad to be here again this year, especially with someone you love.]

My chest tightened. So that was why he had skipped my graduation.

My fingers clenched the phone as Zaldy’s mother noticed my tension.

“Sami, dear, are you alright?” she asked, concern etched in her features.

I forced a calm smile. “Yes, I’m fine. Did you find something you liked?”

“I did. And I picked one for you, too. I hope you’ll enjoy it,” she said, handing me a bag.

“Thank you, truly,” I replied, letting the warmth of her gesture cut through my bitterness.

Back at the manor, the emptiness pressed heavier than ever. Zaldy did not return that night, nor the next. I tried to distract myself, but a persistent unease left me restless.

Days later, another post: Maria in Paris for Fashion Week. And there he was, by her side again—his posture protective, his gaze devoted, his smile reserved entirely for her.

Each image twisted something inside me. Photos of him attending her events, celebrating milestones in her circle, laughing and leaning close—the sting of jealousy flared hotter with each snapshot.

“Why don’t they just move in together already?” I muttered, anger and frustration coiling in my stomach.

I could no longer hold back. My pulse racing, I threw the phone aside, gathered my papers, and ordered the driver to take me to the courthouse.

This time, hesitation had no place. I signed the divorce papers with precision, my signature firm and unwavering. No more doubt. No more waiting. I reclaimed my life.

---

A few days later, Zaldy returned from Paris.

That evening, I set a quiet dinner, the first time in weeks we would sit across from each other. Calm and deliberate, the divorce documents were laid neatly beside my plate.

As he took his seat, I slid the folder across the table.

Zaldy glanced at it, expression unreadable, then pushed it back toward me.

“Put it in my office. I’ll review it later,” he said casually.

I froze. “You’re not even going to read them?” My voice trembled with disbelief.

He sighed, picking up his communicator. “Sami, can we not do this now? I just got back. I’m exhausted.”

“Do you even care?” I pressed, voice shaking. “Have you noticed? I stopped managing your schedules, stopped tending to your needs—and you barely reacted.”

“Look,” he said, waving a hand dismissively, “throwing a fit doesn’t make me drop everything. Now, if you’re done, let me eat in peace.”

I stared at him, every ounce of indifference in his eyes answering all the questions I hadn’t dared to ask aloud.

Finally, I rose, clutching the papers to my chest, feeling a surge of strength bloom.

“Very well, Zaldy,” I whispered, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll leave them in your office. But this time, I am done waiting for you.”

I walked away, placing the divorce papers on his desk. My eyes fell on a chaotic pile of receipts, statements, and purchase orders.

My heart sank. Since Maria’s return, his expenses had soared—a penthouse in Paris, lavish gifts—evidently all for her.

On impulse, I grabbed a sticky note and scrawled: “Make sure you sign it!”

I began packing at dawn, sorting through years of memories and belongings with a clarity I had never felt before.

Though Zaldy and I technically had separate quarters in the manor, we shared a dressing wing—a space I had once meticulously maintained, folding his suits, polishing his shoes, arranging his belts, and ensuring everything he owned was in perfect order. It had been my daily ritual, a small attempt to keep peace in a marriage that had always been more obligation than love. But now, it was time to let it all go.

As I folded my own clothes, my gaze landed on the gifts I had given him over the years: luxury watches, tailored jackets, trinkets from foreign cities, and carefully chosen items for birthdays, anniversaries, and every other occasion the family recognized. Each lay untouched, still wrapped or set aside as if my effort had never mattered.

My chest tightened. I had poured care, thought, and hope into every single one, hoping they might remind him that I had once tried to be more than a name in the ledger. But they were never for me to keep. I bundled them for donation, a quiet act of reclaiming control over my life.

Next, I packed every token he had ever given me—gold chains, rings, garments meant to remind me of my “place,” symbols of ownership rather than affection. I left behind only what I had earned with my own labor: the steady income from selling my paintings, modest yet entirely my own.

When the donation boxes were loaded into the car, I set off for the orphanage where I had grown up. On the way, I stopped at a small market and bought treats for the children there—no matter how far I traveled, they would always be a piece of my heart.

Upon arrival, the woman who had raised me, my mother in all but blood, greeted me warmly. We settled into a quiet corner, speaking in the familiar rhythm of mother and daughter.

After a pause, I exhaled and shared my plans.

“I’m leaving for Italy to continue my studies,” I said, a small, resolute smile brushing my lips. Her eyes lit up, and she clasped my hands tightly.

“Oh, Sami! I knew you were meant for great things,” she said, voice trembling with pride. “You deserve every bit of happiness coming your way.”

Her words soothed the knot in my chest, giving me courage. “I’m also… divorcing Zaldy.”

Her expression faltered, concern shading her features. She had known me long enough to recognize the kindness in my heart, and perhaps she had hoped my marriage might provide a family I had never truly had.

As I explained, her face softened. “Sometimes letting go is the bravest act,” she murmured, patting my hands. “You must walk your own path, Sami.”

I nodded and embraced her tightly. “Thank you.”

Evening came, and I drove home slowly, savoring the quiet. No rush, no need to arrive precisely when Zaldy demanded, no fear of disapproval. In the past, I would have pushed the car to every limit to reach the manor on time; even meals had been rituals, strict rules he enforced to remind me of my “duties.”

I never understood why he clung to these routines when there was no love, no partnership. Perhaps it was for show, proof to the family and household that we were a “proper couple,” though we lived apart, slept apart, existed entirely separate.

But when I entered the manor, my chest tightened.

Gritte, Zaldy’s younger sister, lounged on the couch beside Maria, shopping bags from designer boutiques scattered around them.

“Oh, you’re back,” Gritte sneered, dripping entitlement. “Why so late? We’re hungry. The chef hasn’t prepared anything. Go fix it.”

Her words stung, a reminder of all the thankless labor I had poured into this house. Maria didn’t look at me, fussing over a new handbag as though I were invisible.

Zaldy emerged from the shadows of the hallway, his presence effortless and commanding. “No need to cook Samight. We’ll dine out,” he said smoothly, his voice softening the instant it fell on Maria. “What would you like, Lily?”

Her face lit up. “Steak! The place from college—our favorite.”

Without hesitation, he grabbed the car keys. Watching them together, so naturally at ease, I moved toward the door, hoping to escape witnessing their private reunion.

His voice cut through the room, sharp and controlled. “You’re coming with us. You must be hungry too.”

I paused, keeping my tone steady. “No, thank you. I’m not.”

“That wasn’t a question,” he said, darker now, irritation edging every word.

I exhaled, the weight of his authority pressing down, and relented. “Fine,” I murmured.

In the car, Zaldy and Maria shared the front seat, laughing and reminiscing as if the world existed only for them. I was relegated to the back with Gritte, who kept as much distance as possible, treating me like a stranger.

The city lights blurred past the window while they talked and laughed. Their comfort and connection stabbed at my chest, a sharp reminder of the life I had never truly shared with him.

When we arrived at the restaurant, my stomach twisted. The steakhouse—one I had once thought was ours—had always belonged to him and Maria. Each familiar detail, every shadowed corner, now reflected the truth: everything I had believed about us was an illusion.