Chapter 3
Aurora’s POV
I stood at the front desk, my heart hammering as the clerk slid a thick envelope across the counter.
The brass plaque behind her read Castellan & Associates — Family Counsel, Contracts & Dissolutions. The law firm that had served both our families for three generations. The firm that had drafted my marriage contract.
“Mrs. Crimson?” The clerk peered at me over her glasses. “Is everything alright?”
“Fine.”
I tore the seal open with my thumb and eased the papers out just far enough to read the header.
Petition for Dissolution of Marriage Contract — Preliminary Draft
My heart sank. The form was blank, waiting for signatures and dates. Waiting to undo an alliance two families had bled for. I folded it back into the envelope, smoothing the crease with shaking fingers.
“Thank you.” I tucked the envelope into my bag.
I turned to leave and walked straight into a familiar chest.
“Aurora?”
Mark. Enzo’s Underboss and one of my oldest friends. We’d grown up together in the same circle of family children, back when Blackthorne and Crimson were separate territories with their own politics.
His eyes dropped to the bag I was clutching against my chest.
“What are you doing here?”
“Nothing.” The lie slipped out. “Just… my mother’s medical bills.”
Mark frowned. “How is your mother?”
“Much better. She should be discharged in a few days.”
“That’s good.” He hesitated, then added, “I hope you’re doing well.”
My smile shattered like broken glass. “I’m fine.”
“Hmm.” Mark gently squeezed my shoulder, his touch warm and familiar. “It was nice to see you, Aurora. Take care of yourself.”
I nodded and slipped past him. I had to get ready for dinner.
Enzo was treating me to dinner at his favorite restaurant to make up for our missed anniversary.
The restaurant was beautiful. Crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, and a string quartet playing softly in the corner.
Enzo had reserved a private room overlooking the city skyline, and they even had $500 bottles of wine.
This was exactly the kind of place he always chose. To show the world that the Don of the Crimson family would go to any lengths for his Donna.
But this wasn’t my favorite restaurant. My favorite was a small Italian restaurant downtown, with red checkered tablecloths, where all the dishes were cooked by an elderly Italian lady.
Enzo took me there once a few years ago, and I told him it was the best meal I’d ever had.
He never took me there again.
“I brought you something,” Enzo said, pushing a velvet box across the table.
Before even opening it, I knew what was inside. A diamond and white gold bracelet.
Exactly the same style he’d given me for our anniversaries for the past five years.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, as I always do.
I used to proudly wear every bracelet, showing them off to the ladies of other families at every grand event.
These were gifts from my husband, and I always tried to convince myself they were an expression of his love.
Now I understood. He didn’t understand me at all.
He just had his assistant order the same thing year after year, because it was much easier than figuring out my true preferences.
I knew him inside and out. His favorite color (navy blue). His favorite food (the braised beef his mother had brought from her hometown, which had taken me months to recreate). He liked his coffee black.
His right hand instinctively reached for his holster when a stranger moved too quickly.
He didn’t even know I was allergic to matcha.
A waitress brought dessert, a delicate green cake sprinkled with matcha powder.
“Matcha cake,” she announced. “This was specially prepared by the chef for the occasion.”
I stared at the cake, remembering the photos on Instagram, my throat tightening.
Enzo had made a cake for the person he truly loved. And for me, he’d had a stranger’s chef make this thing that could land me in the hospital.
“What’s wrong?” Enzo asked.
Everything was wrong.
“I can’t eat this,” I whispered. “I’m allergic to matcha.”
“When did it start?”
“Always, Enzo.”
He gestured for the waiter to take the cake away, but it was too late.
We’d been married five years, and he didn’t even know about such a basic allergy.
I couldn’t breathe.
“I have to go.” I jumped up, the chair scraping against the floor.
He grabbed my arm. “Aurora, wait—”
My bag slipped from my shoulder and fell to the floor. Things were scattered everywhere—lipstick, keys, wallet, and a thick envelope from Castellan’s office.
Enzo bent down to help me gather my things.
His fingers had just touched the envelope when his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen. “I have to take this.” He was already walking towards the door. “Go home. I’ll see you there.”
“Enzo—”
But he was already gone, phone to his ear, his voice low and gentle, disappearing around the corner. His driver didn’t even glance back at me.
The envelope was left forgotten on the floor.
I made the only sensible choice: I hailed a taxi and followed him.
I knew it was ridiculous—the Donna of the Crimson family tailing her husband’s Maybach through rush-hour traffic like a second-rate private investigator.
But I wanted answers.
The taxi took me to St. Michael’s Hospital.
My mother was recovering there. I walked down the familiar corridor, my stomach churning. I followed in Enzo’s wake, past staff who nodded respectfully and hurried to open doors for him—trailing after him like a lovesick fool.
I found him in the pediatric ward.
Through the window of a private room, I saw my husband holding another woman.
Sophie cried, burying her face in his chest. On the bed behind them, a little boy slept, an IV drip attached to his small hand.
“It’s just a fever,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “He’ll be alright, I promise.”
“I’m so scared,” Sophie’s voice trembled. “When he started having the fever, I didn’t know what to do. I just… I need you.”
“I’m here now.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ll always be here.”
A sharp, agonizing pain shot through me.
I remembered that night I told Enzo I wanted a child.
We’d been married for two years, and I felt it was time.
I brought it up while Enzo was still inside me.
The next morning, he handed me a box of emergency contraceptive pills and watched me swallow them.
“We’re not ready,” he said. And then the discussion ended. His word was final.
I thought he just didn’t want children.
But it turned out—
He didn’t want children with me.
He wanted children with her. Sophie turned slightly to the side, reaching for a tissue on the bedside table. The light shone on her wrist.
She was wearing the exact same bracelet as the one on my wrist, diamonds and white gold.
My vision blurred, and I ripped off my own bracelet.
The clasp cut my skin, drawing blood, but I didn’t care. I threw the bracelet on the floor, watching it slide across the tiles like a worthless object.
Because to him, I was worthless, easily replaceable.
While he waited for the woman he truly loved, I was just a placeholder, a substitute named Donna.
I didn’t break down in tears until I got back to the taxi, the sobs making my whole body tremble.
What remained of my heart curled up into a small, silent ball.
I’ll serve him the divorce papers after my mother is discharged from the hospital.
