Timothy and Mira left with the director to finish whatever bullshit paperwork was still pending. I stayed on the stairs. Arms crossed. Ice in my veins.

Then she came.

Xandria.

All smug and casual, like she didn’t just crawl out of my husband’s bed ten minutes ago.

“Y’know, Charlene,” she purred, her heels clicking slow on each step, “if you didn’t know better, you’d think Elio was Timothy’s son. They’ve got the same eyes. Same little frown when they don’t get their way.”

I didn’t flinch.

“Is that so?” I said, head tilted, voice flat.

She leaned against the railing, twirling a strand of hair like she was flirting with fate.

“Maybe it’s destiny. I mean, blood calls to blood, right?”

I said nothing. She kept talking.

“Elio’s mother must’ve been stunning,” she sighed dramatically, examining her nails. “I mean… just look at that bone structure.”

Then—slow, practiced—she swept her thick hair over one shoulder to reveal a deep red kiss mark blooming on her collarbone.

“Sorry. My husband gets a little impatient sometimes.” She smirked. “Does Timothy ever get… rough with you, too?”

I didn’t blink. I just stared into her eyes and said, “You know what you remind me of, Xandria?”

She tilted her head, curious.

“Rotten fruit in a silver bowl. Looks sweet. Smells expensive. But bite into it—and it’s all worms and perfume.” My voice didn’t rise. I didn’t need to shout. “That’s what he’s like when he’s with you. Spoiled craving spoiled.”

Her smile faltered. The bratty glow dimmed, just for a beat. Then she straightened. But before she could snap something back, her gaze shifted—over my shoulder. She smiled again, this time like she had a secret weapon cocked and loaded.

“Let’s see if he still remembers who trained him…” she whispered, stepping back. “…or if he’s just playing fetch with the wrong master.”

And then she threw herself down the stairs.

“Ahhh!”

I reached out instinctively, caught the edge of her blazer—but of course, the cheap-ass button popped clean off. She tumbled, limbs flailing, until she landed in a heap at the bottom—groaning.

---

Cue the bastard.

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hall, and shoved past me like I didn’t exist. Dropped to his knees beside her.

“Xandria. Baby—hey, talk to me. Xandria.”

She grabbed his arm, clinging like a leech, voice shaky and dramatic.

“Don’t… don’t be mad at Charlene… she’s just never cared for kids the way we do.” She moaned like she’d been hit by a truck. "I—I tried to tell her… Elio’s ours now. She freaked out. Pushed me—”

And then, right on cue—The bitch fainted. Or pretended to. Hard to tell with all the extra mascara running down her face.

I stood frozen. Not from guilt. Not from fear. From the sheer audacity. Timothy turned to me, face blank, but voice ice-cold.

“You know what I hate the most?”He stood slowly, lifting Xandria in his arms. “People who smile at your face… and stab behind your back.”

And just like that, he and his mother walked off—with her. Left me sitting on cold stone steps, bleeding from a scratch I didn’t notice ‘til now.

---

The director rushed out. Poor man looked like he’d swallowed glass.

“Miss Riccardo—are you hurt?”

I stood on my own, brushing off my coat. Blood seeped from my palm. “I’ve volunteered here for years,” I said quietly, tying my silk scarf around my hand.

“Thought that counted for something.”

He didn’t reply.

The children poured out of the cafeteria, laughter echoing through the hall. I spotted Elio running past. Carefree. Sweet.

He watched him fondly.

“Elio’s lucky. He and Mr. Colombo… they really do act like blood.”

My stomach twisted.

---

Back in my car, I stared at my phone for a long time. Then tapped the number I hadn’t called in five years.

The line rang once.

“Well, well… Ms. Riccardo,” came the smooth, dangerous voice. “Didn’t expect to hear from you. Bored of playing house with the mafia prince?”

“Alejandro.” My voice was flat. “Is our engagement still valid?”

He chuckled. "You’re married now, sweetheart. If you’re looking for a side piece, I’m not that cheap.”

“I’m not calling for a thrill.”

Silence.

Then, he got real quiet. “So it’s true,” he said. “He never made you a legal wife, did he?”

My chest tightened.

“Is the engagement still valid or not?”

He leaned into the mic, voice dropping an octave.

“Ms. Riccardo… are you asking to marry me? Or just begging to burn the world down?”

I hung up.

---

I pulled the car to the side of the road.

Ping. A message.

From Xandria.

“What’s it like being a fake wife for five years?”

“Guess what Timothy’s doing right now?”

Attached was a short video.

Timothy... my Timothy... in his dark Armani suit, kneeling in front of her, tying her damn shoelaces like a lapdog.

The cufflinks on his wrist? I picked those.

Birthday gift. Custom-made. Gold-plated initials.

I gripped the phone so hard my palm split open again. Blood smeared across the screen.

Then… it rang.

Xandria.

Her voice came through, smug.

“Charlene, you’ve always been too quick to trust. If you’d taken your time… you might’ve noticed that marriage certificate was fake.”

Silence from my end. Then she added, almost playfully:

“Want me to send you a real one?”

My grip tightened on the phone, jaw clenched, but I didn’t cry. Not this time.

Instead, I scrolled.

Found the clip. The one from two years ago.

Security footage. Private. Grainy. Black-and-white. But crystal clear in meaning.

Timothy.

In my office. On his knees—kissing the hem of my dress. Begging me not to leave.

“Please, Charlene. You're the only one who makes me feel like a man.”

I’d kept that video locked in a vault folder, never meaning to use it. Until now.

Attached. Sent.

I added a single line:

“Guess he kneels for whoever’s holding the leash. Welcome to my leftovers.” And then I blocked her.

Because sometimes, silence after the fire is louder than the scream.

I didn’t go home that night. Couldn’t.

Not to the place where everything smelled like him. Where every wall reminded me I was a fool.

I checked into a high-rise hotel downtown, under a fake name. I sat on the edge of the bed, still in the same damn heels. And then—just like that—I broke.

No sound. No scream.

Just tears that wouldn’t stop.

Ugly. Slow. Soul-deep.

I cried like I was burying someone. Maybe I was.

Maybe I was burying the last version of me who still believed in him.

I don’t remember how long I sat there before I grabbed my phone.

“Aira,” I whispered, throat raw.

“Bring the company asset files. Everything. Now.”

She didn’t ask questions. She never does.

---

It was nearly 2 a.m. when she showed up.

Aira looked like a ghost—wet from the rain, eyes wide, clutching a folder like it was going to explode in her hands.

“Miss Charlene…” her voice trembled.

“You need to sit down first.”

I didn’t. I took the folder.

Opened it and started reading.

And my heart stopped beating right. Every page stabbed harder than the last. Documents I’d signed—except I didn’t.

Transfer authorizations. Company share adjustments. Asset moves. All of it. Done behind my back. Six months ago.

To him.

To Timothy.

Aira was saying something, but it sounded like water in my ears. I flipped through page after page, hunting for a lie—anywhere—but it was all airtight. Fake signatures. Ghost board meetings. Quiet bank moves. Legal tricks that only someone with serious power and zero conscience could pull off.

I had nothing left. Not even my name on the doors I built. He didn’t just cheat on me.

He robbed me.

“Three days,” I whispered to the girl in the reflection. “I’ll disappear in three days. He’ll never see me again.” My voice shook, but my jaw didn’t.

“And when I come back…” I ran my hand over the mirror, wiping away the fog. “I’ll take back every damn thing he stole. Every building. Every dollar. Every lie.”

I leaned in close. Saw the rage behind the tears.

“I’ll make Timothy Colombo regret the day he met me.”

---

Next morning.

I pushed open the gate and it still unlocked to my thumbprint. Of course it did. Even after everything, this house still thought I belonged here.

The morning air hit me like a slap—cool, too fresh, like the world hadn’t burned last night. I walked in without a sound. No guards stopped me. No cameras pinged. Nothing. Like I was still the queen of this damned mansion.

But the second I stepped in, I smelled it—breakfast. Not just food. Pancakes. Strawberries. Coffee.

Then laughter. Light, soft. A woman’s voice. A child’s giggle.

I followed it to the kitchen. And there they were.

Timothy. At the stove, flipping pancakes like some damn domestic dream, wearing only sweatpants, tattoos out, relaxed like we didn’t just shatter five years of marriage.

Xandria. In my silk robe. Not just any robe. The cream one I used to wear when I’d wait for Timothy to come home from late-night deals. My necklace on her neck. My bracelets jingling on her wrists. Her bare feet on my tile.

And Elio. Seated at the table. Swinging his legs. Laughing. Holding a fork like he lived here.

“Dad,” he said. That word ripped something loose in my chest.

I stood there, completely still, and for one long second, it was like I never existed. Like I was the stranger. Like I was the ghost in this picture-perfect scene.

Timothy turned. His face didn’t even shift with guilt. “Oh,” he said, casual as hell. “You’re back. Thought you were out of town. Mafia wife things.”

That smug bastard.

Xandria looked at me over her shoulder, lips curled into something soft and nasty. She placed her hand on Timothy’s chest. Right over the kiss marks blooming red across his skin. Angry, swollen. Dozens of them.

He didn’t even flinch. Just said, “Mosquito bites. Don’t know what the hell’s going on with the weather.”

Mosquito bites.

I didn’t speak. I didn’t move. I just stared. Took it all in. The way Xandria clung to him like she belonged. The way Elio fit in this picture like he was born for it. The way my husband didn’t look surprised to see me standing in the ruins of what used to be my life.

He never planned to stop this. I turned away and walked upstairs. He called my name. Twice.

Didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

I opened the door to our bedroom—no, my bedroom—and stopped breathing. Everything had been moved. My perfumes gone. Replaced by that cheap, flowery crap Xandria wears like she’s still in college.

Closet? Rearranged. My blazers wrinkled. Dresses missing. Some of my shoes—gone. Jewelry drawer—picked clean.

I opened one drawer. My wedding photo. Face down. Like someone couldn’t stand to look at it anymore.

I stared at it. Then picked it up. My smile frozen in time. His hand on my waist. We looked so damn believable.I laughed. Quiet. Cracked. Deadly.

Then the door creaked behind me.

I didn’t need to turn. Her scent always gave her away—cheap perfume drowning in expensive branding.

“Knock, knock,” Xandria said, syrup-sweet, voice echoing through my room like she owned it. “Didn’t think you’d still be here. But I guess old habits die hard, huh?”

I stared at the mirror. Her reflection stepped in beside mine. Smug. Smiling. Holding something behind her back.

“You’re trespassing, you know,” she added, almost sing-song. “But since I’m a generous woman, I brought you a going-away gift.”

She pulled it out and slapped it on the vanity in front of me.

A crisp, white envelope. Gold seal.

I didn’t move. She opened it for me. Slid the contents out like a stage magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.

A marriage certificate.

Not mine.

Theirs.

My mouth stayed shut. My blood didn’t.

She leaned closer, eyes glinting. “You were the dress rehearsal. I’m the show.”

Then she turned and picked up a black garbage bag sitting by the door. Walked back with a little bounce in her step, like this was some kind of celebration.

“I even packed for you,” she said cheerfully.

And then—she threw it at my face.

Clothes. Broken shoes. A framed photo of my parents. Crushed perfume bottle leaking onto old silk.

“That was your stuff,” she said, voice cutting now. “That’s all you are now. Garbage.”

She stepped closer, her smile twisted. “You were just a filler, Charlene. A breathing place while he waited for me to come back.”

She looked around the room like inspecting her new kingdom. “Your time’s up. This house, this man, this life—it’s mine now.”

Her gaze dropped to the wedding photo I still held.

She plucked it from my hand and dropped it into the trash bag.

“Go on, mafia princess,” she said, voice like poison dipped in sugar. “Crawl back to your shadows. You don’t belong in this picture anymore.”

Then she shoved the door wide open, letting the morning light hit my face like a slap.

“Leave,” she said. “You’re rotting in our story.”

Something inside me snapped.

I stood.

Turned.

And slapped her.

Hard.

Her head jerked to the side. That sickening silence followed—sharp, electric. She gasped. Her hand flew up, ready to swing back at me.

I caught it mid-air.

Tight. Twisted it until she whimpered.

Then I slapped her again. This time with all the force of five years of betrayal, humiliation, and rot.

She stumbled back, holding her face, and for a second—just a second—I saw fear crack through her painted arrogance.

But then she found her weapon.

She crumpled to the floor like some porcelain doll, sobbing loud, fake and frantic.

“Timothy!” she wailed. “Timothy, please!”

Tears poured like someone flipped a switch.

“She’s going to kill me! Charlene’s insane—she hit me! She’s gonna kill me!”

I was still breathing hard, chest rising and falling like a storm ready to break again.

I hadn’t even touched a weapon.

Yet.

But Xandria—

She was a trained snake. She knew the cue.

She screamed again, louder this time. “Timothy, please help me! She snapped! She snapped! I—I think she’s hiding a knife!”

And just like that, a glint of silver flashed past my eye.

A knife.

Buried in the floor. Right at my feet. It wasn’t mine.

But I knew that blade. It was hers.

Custom black grip. Mafia-grade steel.

And it screamed trap.

I looked at the blade. Then at the mirror. Then at her—still crying, still curled up, shaking like a terrified saint.

Then I heard it. Timothy’s voice.

Roaring down the hallway like thunder.

“CHARLENE!”

The door slammed open with a bang. I hadn’t even made it past the front steps. Timothy stormed in like a hurricane—hair wild, shirt half-buttoned, fury in every line of his face. He didn’t even let me speak—just grabbed me by the arm like he owned my skin.

“What the fuck did you do?!” he thundered. “You laid hands on her?! Are you out of your goddamn mind, Charlene?!”

I yanked my arm away. “You want to talk about crazy, Timothy? Let’s start with you forging our marriage. You want receipts? I’ve got them all. Every shell company. Every asset you transferred under your name. I know everything.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes turned cold. Mafia-cold. The version of him no one survived.

“I built this life with you,” I said, voice shaking from rage, not fear. “And you turned it into a grave.”

He didn’t say anything. Then—

Crack.

His hand landed across my face. My head snapped sideways. Blood filled my mouth. And still, I didn’t fall. I looked back at him with the kind of look that should’ve killed.

“You always said you wanted a strong wife,” I said, barely breathing. “Well. Here I am.”

That’s when he lost it. Timothy slammed me against the wall. Fist to ribs. Palm to throat. Blow after blow—calculated, brutal, like he was erasing something. He didn’t hit me like a man. He hit me like a boss giving a lesson.

Behind him, just before my knees gave out, I saw her—Xandria. Leaning by the stairwell. Arms crossed. A smug, delighted gleam in her eyes. She smiled. No pity. Just satisfaction. Like she’d waited her whole life for this exact scene.

I dropped to the marble floor, dizzy, my vision flickering black and red. And he just stood there, breathing hard, like I’d deserved it.

“Get in here,” he barked.

Two men in black entered like shadows summoned from hell. One I recognized. One I didn’t.

“She’s nothing. Trash,” Timothy said, not even looking at me. “Drag her out. Make sure she remembers who owns this city.”

I tried to get up, but the bigger one already had my arm. The other grabbed my shoulder.

“No—no, no—” I wheezed, ribs screaming. They pulled me like I weighed nothing.

The staff watched from a distance. The same people I used to pay, clothe, feed. Not one of them moved. Not one.

The last thing I saw before they shoved me into the SUV was my wedding photo smashed on the hallway floor. Face cracked. Frame twisted. Just like me. Inside the car, Timothy’s voice followed like a curse.

“You're not even my wife. You were for show. A body to fill a seat.” He lit a cigarette. Blew the smoke toward the open window. "Now you're just… gone.”

---

We hit the woods thirty minutes later. They dragged me out, past the trees, to some forgotten stretch of land that smelled like metal and rot.

The taller one raised a pipe. The other hesitated.

“Boss said we kill her. Bury the body.”

“But…” the younger one said, voice unsure. “Miss Charlene helped me pay for my mother’s meds. When Boss left me to rot, she didn’t.”

I tried to focus on him. Tried to remember his name. Everything hurt.

He stepped back. Pulled out his phone.

“Wait,” he said. “I’ll call Alejandro.”

---

Darkness. Dirt. Cold air pressing down on my skin. I don’t remember when I blacked out. All I know is—I woke up half-buried. Leaves, mud, blood soaked into every inch of me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Just laid there, tasting death.

Then a voice cut through the trees. Low. Sharp.

“Dig her out.”

Gloved hands pulled back the dirt. I blinked up into storm-gray eyes under a dark hood.

Alejandro. The devil I should’ve said yes to.

He didn’t say a word. Just carried me like I was glass.

---

Weeks passed in a mountain safe house I didn’t recognize. I woke up stitched, bruised, bandaged. My ribs cracked every time I breathed. I walked with a cane. My voice stayed a whisper.

Alejandro watched. He never touched. Never pried. He reminded me of who I used to be. Who I could be again.

---

One afternoon, I heard the news. TV flashing muted colors. Alejandro sitting nearby, reading.

A black coffin. Floral wreaths. Timothy in a dark suit, holding Xandria like she was the grieving widow.

News anchor’s voice rang out:

“Socialite Charlene Colombo, wife of mafia tycoon Timothy Colombo, has been confirmed dead in a tragic car accident...”

Alejandro looked up. Reached for the remote to turn it off.

But I was already laughing. Broken. Cracked. Laughing like a ghost who heard her own funeral.

I walked up to the mirror. Looked at the scars. The stitched skin. The woman they buried.

I smiled at my reflection—ugly, raw, half-alive.

And whispered:

“If I’m a ghost now… then I’ll haunt them.”