Vincent came home early for once, at seven. Usually, he'd claim he was tied up at the casinos or the docks, or wining and dining some politician—now I knew those were just excuses.

"Elena? You're home," he said, shrugging off his suit jacket. His voice had a gentleness I hadn't heard in a long time. "How was your day?"

I didn't even look up from the sofa.

"Elena?" He walked over, about to sit beside me. "You don't look so good. Are you feeling sick?"

He reached out to touch my forehead. I flinched away.

"Don't touch me."

Vincent paused, then chuckled. "What's wrong? Who pissed you off?"

I finally looked at him. The face I'd once adored now looked like a stranger's.

"Did you see the group chat?"

His expression froze for a fraction of a second before returning to normal. "Oh. That. Yeah, I saw it."

That's it? I saw it?

"That's it?" I stood up, my body shaking. "Sophia is pregnant with your child, and all you have to say is 'I saw it'?"

Vincent loosened his tie, a familiar gesture that now made my stomach turn. "Elena, we were clear when we got married. This was for our families. What are you complaining about?"

"Complaining?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "Vincent, you got another woman pregnant!"

"I need an heir, Elena," he said, his tone terrifyingly calm, like he was talking about the weather. "The Romano family needs an heir."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut.

"An heir?" I stalked to the bar, grabbed a crystal glass, and threw it at him. "You want an heir?"

It shattered at his feet.

I stormed into the bedroom, grabbed the reports from that afternoon, and threw them at his chest.

"You know what this is? Birth control! The 'folic acid' you've been giving me is birth control!" My voice cracked, raw with fury. "And this—this is my medical report. You fed me poison for three years, Vincent! Three years! And now my doctor says I might never be able to have kids."

Vincent picked up the papers, his face turning to stone.

"And now you tell me you want an heir?" Tears streamed down my face. "You stopped me from getting pregnant while you knocked up someone else. For three years, Vincent, I thought it was my fault. I went to doctors. I cried and asked you if I wasn't good enough…"

"Elena, I…"

"You what?" I snarled. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? Even your friends knew Sophia was pregnant. Only me, your wife, was kept in the dark. Was it funny? Did you all think I was a complete idiot?"

Vincent was silent for a long moment. Finally, he just picked up the reports from the floor. "Elena, you're too emotional right now. We'll talk when you've calmed down."

Talk.

In five years, every time we disagreed, that was his line.

Like I wasn't his wife. Just another business deal to be managed.

The door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the living room, surrounded by the shattered glass that looked just like my heart.

I collapsed onto the floor, the tears finally spent. Five years of marriage had been nothing but a scam. And I was the biggest fool of all.

I wiped my eyes, picked up my phone, and dialed a number.

"Thompson & Associates, good evening."

"This is Elena Romano. I need you to draw up divorce papers. As soon as possible."

The next evening, Vincent came home again.

This time, he was holding a small, elegant blue box—the signature of Tiffany & Co.

"Elena, I bought you something," he said, approaching me carefully, his voice dripping with a sweetness I now knew was fake. "You're going to love it."

I sat by the window, not even bothering to look at him.

Vincent opened the box. Inside lay a brilliant diamond necklace, each stone flawless and sparkling under the light.

"It's from the new collection. Global limited edition," he said softly. "Want to try it on?"

I finally turned to look at him, at the practiced tenderness on his face. Suddenly, the last five years flashed before my eyes.

The apology gifts after every fight. The sudden affection after days of cold shoulders. The sweet nothings he’d whisper whenever I suspected he was cheating… It was all an act.

He’d send roses on my birthday, book the most expensive restaurant for our anniversary, go to church with me on Christmas…

All those beautiful memories were now just a bitter joke. Because I knew, after those "romantic" nights, he'd turn around and go straight to Sophia's bed.

"Elena?" Vincent reached out to put the necklace on me. "Why are you crying?"

I hadn't even realized the tears were falling again. But this time, it wasn't sadness. It was rage. Rage at my own stupidity.

"Get it away from me," I said, pushing his hand away. "Take your necklace, and take your fake concern with it."

"Elena, I know you're angry, but it's not as bad as you think," Vincent tried to explain. "I gave you the pills because I didn't want you to get hurt."

"Afraid I'd be hurt?" I couldn't believe my ears. "So you thought lying to me was better?"

"You don't understand. The succession in the Romano family is complicated. I needed to be sure…" He paused. "But this doesn't mean anything, Elena. Even if Sophia has the baby, it won't change your position. We can still have a good life together."

A good life together?

I stood up, feeling the blood pound in my ears.

"What do you think I am, Vincent? Your little songbird? Something you keep in a cage, toss a few treats to, and expect to sing on command?"

"Elena, don't be like that…"

"Be like what?" My voice rose. "How should I be? Should I keep playing the fool? Keep taking your poison? Watch your mistress carry your child and be grateful for the scraps you throw me?"

"I never asked you to be grateful."

"Then what do you want from me?" I stepped closer. "To keep being your perfect little wife? To put on a show for the world about how happy we are, so you can go screw Sophia with a clear conscience?"

Vincent fell silent.

"There is no 'us' anymore, Vincent," I said, my voice suddenly quiet. "I hate you. I hate your lies, I hate your hypocrisy, and I hate that I ever loved you."

I turned and walked into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.

I heard the sound of something smashing against the door, followed by the front door slamming shut.

I collapsed onto the bed, feeling completely hollowed out.

Just then, my laptop chimed with a new email notification.

I walked over. The screen was lit up with a message from Marcus Blackwood.

Elena,

How have you been? I remember you always used to skip meals. Is your stomach still giving you trouble? I took this picture of some orcas the other day. Incredible, right? I wish we could have seen this together. I know you're married now, and this is probably out of line. I'm sorry. But I miss you. I hope you're happy.

—Marcus

I stared at the email, my heart starting to pound.

It was an escape. A window to a new life.

I opened my email history with Marcus.

For five years, he’d sent at least one a month. Sometimes it was a photo of a beautiful sunset, sometimes a book recommendation, sometimes just a simple "thinking of you."

An email from a year ago: Elena, I walked past a small gallery today and saw a painting that looked just like your style. Are you still painting?

Two years ago: Heard it’s snowing in New York. Stay warm. The winters there can be damp, but they have their own kind of romance.

Three years ago: Happy birthday, Elena. I hope all is well.

I’d read every single one, but never replied. Not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't dare.

Reading them now, I could feel the careful, deep affection in every word. Marcus never crossed the line, never asked about my marriage. But he never stopped caring.

I had held up my end of the deal. What about Vincent?

My phone buzzed. A bank transfer notification: Vincent Romano has sent you $5,000,000.

The note attached: For your trouble.

Five million dollars.

I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. He thought money could buy anything. My forgiveness. My silence.

But that money only strengthened my resolve. It was proof that in his eyes, I really was just a "problem" that could be paid off.

I sat back down at my computer and started typing.

Marcus,

Thank you for your emails. And thank you for not forgetting me these last five years.

Give me one month. Then I’m coming with you.

Elena

I hit send.

Taking a deep breath, I walked to my closet. I had to start packing, but without Vincent noticing.

Over the next few days, I secretly began boxing up my life. I shipped my most important documents, my jewelry, and a few sentimental items to an address in New York. Marcus would be there to get them.

On the surface, Vincent and I were in a cold war. He tried to apologize a few times, but I shut him down with icy silence.

Then, on Thursday night, he knocked on the bedroom door.

"Elena, we need to talk."

I opened it. He stood there, looking exhausted.

"The Don's birthday party is this Saturday," he said, looking me straight in the eye. "The entire Romano family will be there. All our partners, too."

"So?"

"So I need you there with me." He paused. "As my wife."

I let out a cold laugh. "Now you remember I'm your wife?"

"Elena, I know you're angry. I know I screwed up," Vincent said, his voice low. "But can we just… stop this for one night? At least in front of my father, can we just…"

"We what?"

"Call a truce?" He looked genuinely tired. "You know how much they value our marriage, how much they love seeing us together. I don't want him to worry. After the party, we can go back to figuring this out."

I looked at him, my decision already made. This would be my final performance as Elena Romano. My last goodbye to this family and this sham of a marriage.

"Fine," I agreed. "But this is the last time."

A wave of relief washed over Vincent’s face. "Thank you, Elena."

Saturday night, I put on the deep red silk gown—Vincent's favorite. Not for him, but for the perfect end to this play.

"You look beautiful," Vincent said, waiting for me by the door. He was in a sharp, black tuxedo, looking every bit the man I once thought I loved.

If only I didn't know the truth.

I took his arm, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapping around me, but I kept my body as far from his as I could. This would be the last time we ever touched.

The party was at the Romano family's private club, its grand hall filled with the who's who of New York's underworld and high society.

At the entrance to the ballroom, Vincent suddenly stopped and pulled me close, his arm around my waist.

"I love you," he whispered in my ear. Then, in front of everyone, he leaned in to kiss me. I turned my head just enough that his lips landed on my cheek instead of my mouth.

Vincent stiffened.

The crowd didn't see our silent struggle. They just smiled and clapped, murmuring about what a perfect couple we were.

I kept a flawless smile plastered on my face, but inside, I felt nothing.

But as we walked into the grand ballroom, I saw something that made my blood run cold.

Sophia was sitting at the head table. She wore a pale blue maternity dress, her baby bump now obvious. And she was sitting in the seat that should have been mine. The seat for Vincent's wife.

She smiled at us, looking for all the world like the lady of the house.