Five years into my marriage to the Don, Ives Moretti, he left me for dead during a shootout to get his mistress, Isabella, to safety.

I woke up three days later in a private hospital room. No apology.

Ives was cold. “You’re my wife. You knew the risks. Stop being so dramatic.”

Then, he added, “Isabella’s different. She’s fragile. She needed me.”

That was followed by three months of the silent treatment. Like always, he expected me to be the one to break, to come crawling back begging for forgiveness.

Three months later, I handed the Irish deal to Isabella on a silver platter. The big one I’d spent half a year building myself.

Ives thought it was a peace offering.

He smiled, a rare, genuine thing these days. “I knew you’d come around. As a reward, we’ll go to Vegas. I know you’ve always wanted to go.”

The next day, Isabella whined about being bored, and he broke his promise.

He took her to Vegas instead. Told me it was “urgent family business.”

This time, I didn’t cry. Didn’t make a scene. Ives was pleased I was being so understanding.

He had no idea I was already cutting all ties to the Moretti family. That he’d already signed the divorce papers.

I was free.

Ives Moretti broke another promise, ditching our make-up honeymoon for his mistress, Isabella. He took her on a trip, lied that it was family business, and even had the audacity to promise me, “When I get back, I’ll give you an even better honeymoon.”

He had no idea I was done. I was leaving him for good.

The day after Ives left for Vegas, I officially stepped down from all my duties in the Moretti family, with the elders as my witness.

Normally, something this big needs the Don’s approval.

But when Ives’s underboss called him, it went like this: “Boss, about Mrs. Moretti…”

Ives cut him off, his voice sharp with annoyance. "I don't need a report on Aurora. Let her throw her little tantrum. Don't bother me with this shit."

He hung up.

And just like that, I was out.

A few of the usual Moretti cronies were smirking nearby. "Looks like the Don hates the missus even more than they say. Oh, wait, I guess it’ll be ex-missus soon…”

“The Boss is really sprung on this new girl. That Isabella’s got more life in her than some workaholic. Who wants to come home to a cold fish anyway?”

“You’re right,” I said, stopping to face them. A slow smile played on my lips. “So the next time we meet, it might be under very different circumstances.”

Their grins froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” I stepped closer, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Someone on the East Coast just made me an offer. A much, much better one.”

It was a lie, of course, but it was enough to wipe the smug looks right off their faces, replaced by something ugly and uncertain. Then, I turned and walked away.

Not long after, Ives called.

I let it ring twice, then answered.

“Aurora.” His voice was clipped, devoid of any warmth—the tone he used for his underlings. “I sent you some intel. There’s a problem with the Irish. I need it verified and handled. You have one hour.”

I opened the email and glanced at it.

It was about the arms deal Isabella had taken over. The deal I had spent six months building from the ground up, the one Ives forced me to “let” Isabella have to prove herself.

Now, there was a problem, and the mess was right back in my lap.

“Ives—” I began.

“Isabella!” His voice suddenly shifted, becoming soft and tender. “Stay in bed, honey. You were up until 4 a.m. working on family business. Get some more sleep.”

I could hear Isabella’s lazy, purring voice on the other end. “But I want to help you…”

“Silly girl, I’ve got Aurora,” Ives chuckled, the sound grating on my ears. “She’s my wife. The honor of the Moretti family is her honor, too. It’s her duty to help me out, isn't it?”

My fingers clenched into a fist. My nails dug into my palm.

This wasn’t the first time.

The first time, I secured the port rights in Chicago. At the celebration dinner, Isabella cried about feeling useless. Ives publicly announced that the success was her doing and told me privately not to be “so greedy for the spotlight.”

The second time, I got my hands on thirty million dollars’ worth of intel. Isabella “accidentally” let it leak. Ives called me “careless” and put Isabella in charge of the “cleanup.” In reality, I was the one who worked through the night to salvage the mess. She just showed up to take the credit.

The third, the fourth, the fifth time…

I’d lost count.

“Aurora?” Ives’s voice was sharp again, impatient. “Stop playing dumb and handle it. Don’t disappoint me.”

So, he really had no idea I’d stepped down.

And I was under no obligation to tell him.

As for the intel? To hell with it.

After I hung up, my phone buzzed. An Instagram notification.

Isabella had posted in the middle of the night: a flurry of pictures of her and Ives partying at a casino, champagne in hand.

So that was her “working on family business until 4 a.m.”

I was done thinking about them.

But then my phone pinged again. A notification from my bank.

Ives had just wired half a million dollars out of our joint account.

Five years ago. Three months after our wedding.

Ives placed a sleek, black Swiss bank card on the table in front of me.

“This is our joint account,” he said, taking my hand. His thumb brushed over my wedding ring. “Everything the Moretti family has, from this day on, is yours too. I don’t want you to be like the other bosses’ wives—just a trophy, a baby-maker.”

His eyes were so sincere, so full of promise.

“You’re my queen, Aurora. Every inch of this empire I build, I build for you.”

I remember being so moved I had to fight back tears.

From that day on, every dollar I earned on my own went into that account.

I thought we were building our future.

Until I discovered Ives was using it to shower Isabella with gifts.

Everything from fifty-thousand-dollar bracelets to multi-million-dollar mansions.

I’d confronted him about it once. He’d just said, coldly, “That’s less than you spend at a single auction. Why are you being so petty?”

Then came the silent treatment, until I couldn't stand the coldness and caved.

I was sure this half a million was for her, too.

I took a deep breath and called Ives.

No answer. He was probably tangled up in the sheets with Isabella.

I wasn’t wasting another second. I called my private banker and had them freeze the account.

Ives had clearly forgotten that I was a co-owner of that card, with equal authority.

Less than ten minutes later, Ives called back.

“Aurora!” His voice was tight with fury. “What the hell are you doing?!”

He was beyond pissed. "I just saw you called. I was at an auction. My payment was declined. Did you freeze the account?”

“I did,” I said calmly.

There was a two-second pause, thick with disbelief.

“Why?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Do you have any idea how that makes me look? The whole room was watching!”

“I have the right to do whatever I want with my property,” I said, a cold laugh escaping my lips. “And at the very least, I won’t have it spent on people I despise.”

“Aurora, are you throwing a tantrum? Are you a child?” he snapped, his voice rising before he seemed to catch himself. “Look, I know I’ve been distant,” he said, his voice softening into a practiced, placating tone. “How about this? After this trip, I’ll clear my schedule. We’ll go to the Maldives. Just us. Okay?”

He sounded like he was pacifying a brat.

“Just us,” he repeated, his voice firming up again. “Now, unfreeze the account. Immediately.”

“And if I say no?”

Another heavy silence.

Then, his voice turned to ice. “Then we’re getting a divorce.”

Divorce.

He was playing his trump card. Again.

For years, every time we fought, every time I dared to stand up for myself, he’d throw that word in my face.

“Keep this up, and we’re getting a divorce.”

“If you don’t listen to me, I’ll divorce you.”

And every single time, I was the one who backed down.

Because I loved him.

But now, my eyes were wide open. “Fine. As you wish.”

I hung up.

I had more important things to do: set the plan in motion.

A month ago, I had slipped the divorce papers into a thick stack of asset transfer agreements for Ives to sign.

The bitter irony was that after five years of my unwavering devotion, he trusted me so completely with paperwork that he’d sign anything I put in front of him without a second glance.

Now, it was time.

“Even though Mr. Moretti signed it,” my lawyer had explained, “we need a clear, recorded verbal confirmation from both parties that the marriage is irretrievably broken. Basically, you need to get him to say he wants a divorce on the phone.”

So I called Ives again. He picked up on the first ring.

“Aurora, you dare hang up on me?!”

“Ives,” I said, cutting straight to the chase. “About our marriage—”

“Do you have any idea how much you upset Isabella?” he snarled, cutting me off. “If you don’t apologize to her right now, I swear to God, I will divorce you.”

I could hear Isabella’s fake, wounded voice in the background. “Ives, it’s okay… I don’t mind being a little hurt, as long as Aurora isn’t angry anymore…”

Then he was back on the line, his voice thick with self-righteousness. “You hear that? Isabella is willing to be the bigger person, but you have to apologize. That’s my final offer.”

“I heard,” I said. “Thank you, Ives.”

“Thank me for what?” He sounded confused.

“Thank you for saying the word ‘divorce.’” I hung up.

Across from me, my lawyer gave a sharp nod. “That’s it. The paperwork is complete. As of this moment, your divorce is legally in effect.”

After finalizing the divorce, I did one last thing: I put the mansion Ives and I had lived in for five years on the market.

Luckily, the house was in my name. I didn't need his permission.

After a few busy days, I finally came home to pack my last few things, only to find something at the door that wasn’t mine.

A pair of Louboutins. Black stilettos, their soles the color of fresh blood.

Isabella’s.

I pushed the heavy oak door open.

The scene in the living room made my blood run cold.

Ives was on the sofa, with Isabella curled up against him, wearing my silk robe. The one he’d given me for my birthday last year.

But what truly sent a blind rage through me was the sapphire necklace sparkling at her throat.

It was my mother’s.

“Oh, Aurora,” Isabella said when she saw me, standing up with a lazy, casual smile, as if she weren’t my husband’s mistress standing in my home. “You’re finally back. My place is so noisy, so Ives said I could stay here for a bit. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Why haven’t you handled that Irish intel yet?” Ives’s voice was pure ice. “As the Don’s wife, you can’t even handle a small thing like that? Or are you planning to ignore family rules? You know the consequences for that…”

“Rules?” I cut him off, slowly lifting my head. A scornful smile spread across my face. “Ives, you want to talk to me about rules?”

“Last month, Isabella got drunk at a club and told the Russo family the location of our arms warehouse on the East Side. We were ambushed.”

“That was an honest mistake…” Ives started, frowning.

“You took four of your best men and got her out first,” I continued, my voice flat. “You left me behind.”

The room fell silent.

“I took two bullets in the arm, Ives. I was unconscious for three days.” I raised my left arm, showing him the two ugly, puckered scars there. “When I woke up, I asked you why. Do you remember what you said?”

Ives’s jaw tightened.

“You said, ‘Isabella needed protecting. She’s not tough like you,’” I repeated, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “Then you blamed me. Said the Don’s wife shouldn’t be so petty.”

The moment he’d said those words was the moment our marriage died.

“Aurora, don’t drag up the past—”

“Three months, Ives,” I interrupted, my voice shaking with suppressed fury. “You gave me the cold shoulder for three months after that. And now, you let your mistress stand here, in my house, wearing my robe, wearing my dead mother’s necklace, and you have the gall to ask me why I haven’t done my job?”

Isabella bit her lip, her eyes burning with a hatred she didn’t bother to hide.

“Aurora…” Ives took a step forward, about to say something.

“Ives, just let it go,” Isabella said, pulling on his arm, forcing back tears in a pathetic play for sympathy. “I get it, Aurora’s in a bad mood. Why else would she freeze your account…”

Her words seemed to restore his confidence. He became self-righteous again. “Whatever happened in the past, the fact is you froze the account and embarrassed both of us. To make up for it, Isabella will be staying in your room for now…”

“Too bad,” I said with a breezy smile and a shrug. “I already sold the house.”

Both of them stared at me, dumbfounded.

“Sold it?” Ives repeated, then a look of twisted understanding crossed his face. “You mean… to raise the money to fix the mess with the Irish? Aurora, that’s smart. A good move. And to make things right with Isabella, I think you know what to do. You still have your mother’s other jewels.”

Isabella’s eyes lit up. She clutched Ives’s arm excitedly. “You mean those beautiful emeralds? Can I really have them?”

Ives gave a stiff nod. “If you’re willing to give them up, I’ll drop this foolish talk of divorce.”

I looked at the two of them—one smug, the other playing magnanimous—as if they were waiting for me to fall at their feet, grateful for their “forgiveness.”

I pulled a file from my bag.

“I think you misunderstood.”

I held the file out to Ives, and said, slowly and clearly:

“I meant, we are divorced. And I’m the one who filed.”