I Signed My Freedom on Our Anniversary

“Consigliere, I want out. Draft the papers for my separation from Don Desmond… and my resignation from his syndicate. I need both documents ready.”

The consigliere’s brows dipped, his voice lowering as if afraid the walls might be listening.

“Signora Valentina, marriages within the Famiglia aren’t dissolved lightly. Think carefully before you sever ties with the Don.”

Valentina had served as Don Desmond Hackett’s personal aide for three years—and secretly, as his wife since the very beginning.

A month earlier, she had been abducted by a rival crew. That night, they bombarded Desmond’s phone with ransom demands, hoping to extort a fortune from the Hackett Family.

He didn’t answer a single call.

When the captors realized no rescue was coming, they hurled her into the freezing dark waters of the harbor. She would have drowned if an old fisherman hadn’t spotted her and dragged her out.

While she was fighting for her life, Don Desmond was at a luxury hotel suite… with Selene—Valentina’s younger sister by blood and the golden girl of their adoptive parents.

That night, the truth shattered everything she had ever held dear: her stubborn devotion, their years together, the illusion she had been clinging to.

She finally woke up.

“I’m not hesitating anymore,” Valentina told the consigliere, her tone steady as stone. “Don Desmond won’t oppose it.”

She had always known—deep down—that the Don never loved her.

But she had adored him since their youth. When he asked her to marry him three years back, she had agreed through tears of joy.

Their third anniversary was approaching.

Her last gift to him would be simple: divorce—freedom from her existence.

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That night, Valentina returned to the Hackett estate. She found the Don in the kitchen, an apron tied around his waist as he prepared dinner.

He was notoriously obsessive about cleanliness, especially when it came to cooking. During their first year of marriage, he had walked into the kitchen while she was preparing a meal and grimaced, muttering, “Did a dump truck explode in here?”

But Selene once mentioned she enjoyed a man who could cook—so Don Desmond took culinary lessons just to impress her.

He set the food on the table. “You said the famiglia’s operations were quiet today. What kept you so late?”

Even in simple clothes, his towering figure and cold charisma radiated authority.

Valentina masked her weariness and replied smoothly, “The new recruits came in today. I had to arrange training protocols.”

He accepted her explanation without a second thought. In his mind, she was always the one buried in paperwork.

“Alright. Let’s eat.”

She sat. He placed a slice of bitter gourd on her plate. “I remember you liked this. Cooked it just for you.”

Something twisted painfully in Valentina’s chest.

Selene loved bitter gourd.

Valentina was allergic.

Three years by his side, and he still didn’t know.

If he had paid even an ounce of attention, he wouldn’t confuse her with another woman.

When he noticed her hesitation, he frowned. “Lav? Eat.”

Instead, she slid the dish away and reached into her bag, pulling out two folders.

“Dinner can wait. I need you to sign these.”

He disliked discussing business during meals. “What’s so urgent?”

Just as he reached for the paperwork, his phone buzzed.

He moved quickly to cover the screen—but she caught the caller ID anyway.

Selene.

The Don stood abruptly and stepped onto the balcony to answer. His sudden motion toppled a glass dish, sending shards crashing to the floor.

A sliver of glass sliced Valentina’s fingertip. Blood dripped onto the cold tiles.

Desmond didn’t notice. He spent fifteen minutes on the call, then returned only long enough to grab his coat.

“I’ve got business tonight. Don’t wait up.”

Valentina spoke quietly. “You haven’t signed.”

He exhaled sharply, irritated, skimmed the last pages, and scribbled his signature.

“There. Satisfied? I’m leaving.”

She stared at the two signed documents, her voice dull. “Go ahead.”

As if the estate suffocated him, Don Desmond walked out without looking back.

Valentina let out a soft, humorless laugh.

If he cared even slightly, he would’ve realized one paper was a resignation.

And the other—a divorce.

He didn’t even notice her bleeding hand.

But Desmond had always reserved his affection for Selene—the favored daughter of the Marwoods, the woman the world believed to be the true heiress.

Twenty-five years ago, their nanny and Vivienne Marwood had given birth in the same hospital. One mistake swapped the babies.

Valentina—the real heiress—was raised by the nanny.

Selene lived in luxury as the prized princess of the Marwood line.

When the nanny passed away five years later, the truth surfaced.

The Marwoods accepted Valentina into the household, but they clung to Selene as well.

Vivienne had once told her gently, “Avy, we raised Yannie like our own. Now that her mother is gone, she only has us.”

They insisted that revealing Selene’s real identity would invite ridicule. So publicly, Selene kept the title of heiress, while only the Marwood and Hackett families knew the truth.

Desmond and Selene grew up side-by-side. They were bound to be engaged—until Selene met a wealthy French socialite and ran off to chase her fantasies in Paris.

To avoid insulting the powerful Hacketts, the Marwoods pushed Valentina into the engagement instead.

Desmond, heartbroken and apathetic, agreed.

But a month ago, Selene returned—

And Desmond threw Valentina aside.

To force her out of the Hackett syndicate, he even leaked intimate footage of himself and Selene online.

Valentina had watched the clip where they whispered to each other:

Desmond: “Valentina did nothing wrong. But if I just ask for a separation, both families will push back. We need to destroy her reputation so that no one can object.”

Selene: “Three years married—did you ever love her?”

Desmond: “She was a placeholder. I married her to keep the peace, nothing more.”

Valentina had once believed that loyalty and devotion could melt even the coldest heart.

She had been a fool.

Tears blurred her sight as she pulled a small notebook from her bag.

Three years ago, she had set herself a rule:

If he disappointed her ninety-nine times, she would walk away.

The video had been the ninety-ninth.

That night, she placed three items into a box, locked it inside the safe, and closed it with a final click.

Her last anniversary gift to Don Desmond.

He might even appreciate it.

With everything done, Valentina picked up her phone and dialed a number she hadn’t touched in three years.

“Rafael… my divorce cooling period ends in a month. Come for me when it does.”