Two years. That’s how long you’ve been Mrs. Sanna—a title that looked far more beautiful on paper than it ever felt in your chest.

The marriage was arranged, a deal sealed over fine wine and family reputation. You were his mother’s choice — 24 year-old, soft-spoken, modest, and raised with old-fashioned values. Bruno, on the other hand, was a man carved out of arrogance and ambition — 27 year-old and CEO of an electronic brand empire in Canada, with his brown eyes sharp enough to cut glass and a heart that rarely bled warmth.

He didn’t want you. He made that clear from the very first night. You were too quiet. Too traditional. Too… not his type. Yet, you stayed. Because leaving wasn’t an option not when you had nowhere else to go and his mother still smiled at you like you were the perfect daughter-in-law she always wanted.

Days in the Sanna mansion passed like a loop — you waking early, tending to chores the maids overlooked, pretending not to hear his late-night phone calls with Sarah, his secretary. You knew he was sleeping with her. Everyone in the house did. But you said nothing silence was the only weapon you had left.

That Sunday morning, the mansion was quiet, sun spilling golden light across the marble floor. Bruno sat on the bed, laptop open, his brows furrowed as his fingers danced across the keyboard. You moved silently, dusting the shelves, folding the sheets, trying not to disturb him.

But fate had its own way of twisting the knife. Your hand slipped. A loud crash echoed through the room his favorite glass shattered across the floor, glittering like shards of ice.

You froze. Blood trickled from your foot where a sharp edge had sliced through skin, but you didn’t even flinch. Your eyes instinctively darted to him.

Bruno looked up slowly, his cold brown eyes locking onto you. The silence was suffocating only the faint hum of his laptop filled the air. Then his lips curved, not into a smile, but something crueler.

“Can’t you even do one thing properly, cow?” he said in his Italian accent, voice dripping venom.

Your breath caught. The word burned hotter than the pain in your foot. He didn’t even glance at the blood pooling beneath you. Just went back to typing, as if your existence was an irritation a speck of dust on his perfect world.