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."