Replaced by His Mistress

The mahogany doors of the downtown law firm felt heavy against my palms.

Inside, the air was stale, smelling of old paper and expensive cologne.

Mr. Davis, a seasoned attorney who had seen his fair share of messy divorces, stared at the document on his desk. Then, he looked up at me.

His eyes swept over my oversized knit sweater, my messy bun, and my worn sneakers. I looked exactly like what I was—a twenty-two-year-old grad student who had wandered into the wrong building.

I certainly didn't look like the wife of Dante Ferraro.

The ruthless head of the city's most powerful Mafia syndicate.

"Mrs. Ferraro," Mr. Davis began, his voice dropping to a cautious, almost fearful whisper. "Are you absolutely certain? A man like your husband... he doesn't just let things go."

He tapped the divorce petition. The blank signature line mocked me.

My hands were trembling slightly, tucked safely inside my pockets where he couldn't see them. But my voice was dead calm.

"Just notarize it," I said, meeting his skeptical gaze. "The signature will come."

***

The ride back to the Ferraro estate was a blur of gray skies and bare trees.

By noon, I was climbing the grand, sweeping staircase to the third floor.

To Dante’s domain.

I didn't bother knocking. I just pushed the heavy oak doors open.

The scene inside froze me in my tracks, though it shouldn't have surprised me anymore.

Dante was seated behind his massive mahogany desk, his dark, tailored suit hugging his broad shoulders. He was reviewing a ledger, his sharp jawline tense with concentration.

And sitting right on the edge of his desk, her long legs crossed, was Sera.

Sera, his beautiful, untouchable "associate." The woman who was always there.

She was holding a small piece of toasted crostini topped with shaved white truffle, leaning intimately into his space. The rich, earthy scent of the truffle drifted across the room, thick and suffocating.

As I walked in, she brought the food to his lips.

Dante parted his lips and took the bite right from her fingers.

He didn't even lift his eyes from the ledger. He didn't acknowledge his wife standing in the doorway.

Sera finally turned her head, her perfectly glossed lips curving into a sweet, venomous smile.

"Oh," she said, her voice dripping with fake pity. "There's not enough for three."

I stared at her.

*There's not enough for three.*

I carved those words into my memory. She was right. This marriage was far too crowded, and I was the one suffocating in it.

Without a word, I walked up to the desk.

I placed a stack of papers right over his ledger. On top was a brightly colored sheet with my school's crest.

"I need your signature," I said, my voice flat. "University Safety Liability Form. For my upcoming field research."

Beneath it, perfectly aligned so only the signature line showed, was the paper Mr. Davis had stamped just hours ago.

Dante finally paused. He didn't look at my face. He merely glanced at the university crest, a look of mild annoyance flashing in his dark, cold eyes.

He reached for his gold fountain pen.

Sera leaned closer to him, her hand brushing his shoulder. "So, about Lake Como this weekend," she murmured softly, her tone entirely shifting back to a lover's whisper. "The weather is supposed to be perfect."

"Book the villa," Dante replied, his deep, gravelly voice entirely focused on her.

He pressed the pen to the paper.

I'd been married four years to a man who signed death warrants with more care than he signed his own life away.

The pen scratched once. He didn't look up.

That scratching sound—that was me, leaving.

He slid the papers back toward me, the ink still gleaming wet.

"Don't interrupt me again," he dismissed coldly, his eyes already back on his ledger.

I picked up the papers. My heart, which had been beating so frantically all morning, suddenly went completely still. It was done.

"I won't," I whispered.

I turned and walked out of the study.

Behind me, Sera's bright, melodic laughter echoed through the room. They were already back in their own world, discussing the Italian sun.

The heavy oak door clicked shut, cutting off the sound of her voice.

I stood alone in the dimly lit hallway.

The cold facade I had maintained finally cracked. A sudden wave of nausea hit me, sharp and undeniable.

I leaned back against the cool plaster wall, letting out a shaky breath.

Slowly, my trembling hand crept down, pressing firmly against my lower abdomen.

It was flat now. But it wouldn't be for long.

I closed my eyes, the reality of the signed papers in my hand sinking in.

Three weeks until the papers clear.

Thirteen weeks until this one shows.

I just need to not show up on his radar until then.