Quincy skipped our wedding for his old flame.

As compensation, he sent over a troupe of male models from a top East Coast club and made me play the part of a lonely bride in his estate, night after night.

After three months in that gilded cage, I told Quincy I wanted out.

"Is this your latest trick to get my attention, Lena?"

Quincy’s gaze finally lifted from his documents, his obsidian eyes glinting with cold amusement.

"If you're bored, I can send for more models. There's no need for a tantrum."

His encrypted phone rang. Quincy glanced at it and strode toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"I don't have time for your games. Valentina is here."

A cold wave of absurdity washed over me as I stared at the man who, just four months ago, had promised me his life.

"Quincy, I'm not joking."

"I'm done with you."

————————

1

Quincy let out a low chuckle.

"Don't look so glum, my little painter." He murmured, "It's not a good look on you."

He ruffled my hair, an intimate gesture completely betrayed by his ice-cold eyes.

"Alright, knock it off. I'm busy today."

"If you insist on making a scene, wait until my business with the Romanos is finished. I'll take you to Sicily for a week, just the two of us. How does that sound?"

Before I could answer, Quincy turned to his Underboss. "The arrangements?"

The Underboss stepped forward, his posture deferential.

"Don Branca, the armored car is ready. We've fitted it with the velvet interior Donna Valentina prefers, per your instructions."

"We hotboxed it with Cuban cigars last night, so the scent will be just right by the time she gets in."

"The jewelry and weapons you personally selected, and that bottle of '82 Pétrus, have also been placed inside."

Quincy listened, then tapped his knuckles on the desk, rattling off more details.

"Valentina's migraines are acting up. Put a portable massager in the car."

"Notify our restaurant in Italy to clear the premises. I want it completely private. Tell them to start prepping the moment we leave the docks, so the meal is ready upon arrival."

"Remind the head chef: filet mignon, medium rare, with a crisp sear."

"The cream for the dessert must be Valrhona. No substitutes."

...

Quincy continued issuing orders for a full ten minutes.

He was so meticulous that he even specified the napkins couldn't have lace trim.

Only then did he seem to relax.

"You still remember all that?"

Valentina had been gone from the East Coast for five years, yet Quincy remembered every one of her preferences.

Quincy finally spared me another glance.

"Hmm? Why are you still here?"

"Oh, right. Your gift."

"We have an arrangement, Lena. I handle the ugly side of this family, and you enjoy all the privileges of being Mrs. Branca."

Quincy glanced at the expensive gifts for Valentina laid out on the table.

Next to them was a pile of complimentary luxury goods, also worth a fortune.

His gaze fell on them, and he sighed with theatrical annoyance.

"The complimentary items alone cost over a hundred thousand."

Finally, he took a velvet box from the safe and tossed it to me.

Inside was a necklace encrusted with diamonds.

"Bought at auction in Antwerp last month. Go put it on."

"I can't be bothered to pick out something special for you."

When I didn't move, Quincy raised an eyebrow.

"What, not big enough for you?"

I shook my head, my voice quiet but firm. "You still remember everything she likes?"

Quincy let out a soft, dismissive laugh. "It's not about remembering."

"I looked after Valentina for so long, it's just muscle memory now."

I wasn't surprised by his answer.

But a sharp pain, like my heart was being squeezed in a vise, radiated through my chest.

Seeing my silence, Quincy sighed.

"Alright, hurry back to your art studio."

"Valentina will be upset if she smells your paint on me."

As he spoke, he opened an encrypted message on his phone.

Valentina's lazy, thorny voice filled the quiet office.

"Quincy, don't let me see your little pet. Next time, I won't be sending roses—I'll be sending her fingers."

"The entire East Coast knows you're my man, Quincy Branca. Valentina's man. The fact that she even dared to touch you is pathetic."

Her tone was proprietary, as if she were the true Donna of the Branca family.

And I was just a shameless plaything.

Quincy switched off his phone and gently caressed my cheek.

"Come on. You know how she gets."

"Just be a good girl and stay in your cage."

"Once this deal is done, she'll be useless to me."

Quincy's Underboss escorted me from the study, assigning another bodyguard to take me back to the studio.

On the way, the young bodyguard kept trying to console me.

"Ma'am, please don't be upset."

"The Don, he really does care about you."

I said nothing, just stared out the window at the perfectly manicured roses in the estate's garden.

The bodyguard, thinking I didn't believe him, added hurriedly.

"If Donna Valentina really wanted to marry the Don, it would've happened five years ago. You wouldn't have stood a chance."

"He kept you by his side for almost five years, and he still married you… That has to prove you're special to him."

"The Don would never bring a woman like Donna Valentina home. In the end, he'll always choose you."

I could tell he was genuinely trying to be kind.

Just like everyone else around me.

They all told me to be grateful.

They said a woman sold to cover her family's debts couldn't have dreamed of a better fate than marrying into the Branca family.

In their world, marriage was just another transaction.

Quincy was just placating Valentina; it wasn't as if he was keeping a string of mistresses.

I was already incredibly lucky.

I knew all this.

I knew Quincy would come back to me.

But I was so, so tired.

I didn't want this anymore.

I was never the one who pursued Quincy.

Everyone knew that Quincy Branca had once been Valentina Romano's fiercely devoted protector.

His infatuation was the stuff of legend; the most popular threads on our art school’s online forum were always about his lavish spending on her.

But on the very day Quincy was preparing to propose, Valentina vanished, eloping with some European aristocrat.

Quincy raced his car to the private airport to stop her but was ambushed by a rival family along the way. He spent a full month in the ICU.

As an art student working part-time to pay my tuition, I should have had nothing to do with the melodramas of the rich and powerful.

But Quincy specifically requested me as his private caretaker.

The salary he offered was obscene.

I thought it was just the bored pastime of a man born into wealth and violence.

Later, I found out one of Quincy's men had casually mentioned I was about to work at a strip club to make tuition. That’s why he’d summoned me.

He didn't even know what I looked like before he met me.

Sometimes, he really was like a generous tyrant, saving everyone in his world in his own twisted way.

After that, Quincy pursued me for a full year.

Far longer than he had ever been with Valentina.

So long that when people mentioned Valentina's name, he would have to pause for a moment to place it.

Only then did I agree to be with him.

I never had much confidence in our relationship.

But time and again, Quincy took me to meet his family elders, his most trusted men.

He took me through his territory.

He made a point of introducing me to everyone as the woman he was going to marry.

Quincy knew people compared me to Valentina.

So, less than six months after we got together, he formally proposed.

He said he wanted everyone to know that I was the woman who made him want to settle down—the one thing Valentina could never do.

He even spent an entire year planning the wedding.

Quincy handled every single detail himself.

He said he wanted to give me the grandest wedding Chicago had ever seen.

But on our wedding day, his Underboss showed up instead, telling me Valentina had returned.

I couldn't tell if I was sad or relieved.

It was as if I’d always been bracing for this day.

But Quincy said he wouldn't cancel the engagement.

He said it would be six months, at most. That once he was done with Valentina, he would be the same man who loved me.

But I didn't want to wait anymore.

Back in the studio, I pulled the white cloths from the easels and began packing my art.

There was very little of Quincy's here.

But my paintings filled the entire attic.

From the large easels to the expensive brushes on the desk, Quincy had sourced everything to my exact preferences.

He had said he wanted this estate to be filled with my presence.

I packed the canvases one by one.

But the door was suddenly thrown open.

Quincy had returned with Valentina.

Valentina was clinging to his arm. Seeing the art boxes at my feet, she laughed.

"Well, look at this. Did she finally get the hint it's time to get lost?"

She looked me up and down, her gaze dripping with contempt.

"I've seen plenty of your type, climbing into a man's bed when he's at his most vulnerable."

Quincy frowned but said nothing.

I met her gaze, my voice even. "If you want him, he's yours."

Quincy reached out to stop me. "Lena, stop this nonsense."

Valentina snorted.

"You think I need you to give him to me? Don't flatter yourself."

"When I get tired of him, I'll give him back."

Quincy's expression didn't so much as flicker.

But I felt my stomach turn.

"Quincy, what am I to you two? A pawn in your sick game?"

Quincy held Valentina close, but his expression was sober when he answered me. "Lena, you are the wife I swore an oath to before a priest."

The absurdity of it almost made me laugh.

But in the end, all I felt was the cold sting of tears on my cheeks.

"You're both disgusting!"

I tried to leave with my art box, but Valentina had her men block my way, shoving me toward the kitchen.

"Stop the act. You think you're so pure."

"Go on, cook. Let me see how good you are at serving a man."

"Good enough to trick my mad dog into putting a ring on it."

I stared at the cold stove.

Many years ago, the orphanage I lived in caught fire.

I was trapped inside, and it left a deep psychological scar.

Ever since, my fear of fire has been so intense I can't even touch a lighter.

Quincy knew all this.

Just then, a soft scrape came from the kitchen window. I looked up to see one of Quincy’s men prying it open from the outside.

He helped a man in a chef's uniform climb in.

"Ma'am, this is the executive chef from a three-Michelin-star restaurant."

"The Don knows you're afraid of fire. He wouldn't make you cook."

"You can just relax over there."