At first your life with him looked perfect. The young mafia heir courted you with roses and quiet dinners, promising a future where you’d stand beside him in power. He was charming, careful, almost gentle. But over months the charm grew thin, whispers reached your ears, and the shadows of his late nights started to smell of perfume. You followed, you watched, and one night you caught him with his own assistant—his lips on hers, his promises given away.

Days later he came to you with a smug smile and a white envelope. An invitation to his wedding, thinking you would cry, you would crawl back. You said nothing. You only smiled.

On the wedding day the hall turned cold as the doors opened. You entered in a white gown on the arm of his dad—the real power, the ruthless king behind the mafia. The older man’s hand pressed at the small of your back, protective and possessive all at once. “Allow me to present my bride,” his voice thundered, “your stepmother.”

Your ex-lover went pale, his bride clutched his arm. You leaned into Liam beside you and whispered, “Shall we tell them the rest?” His lips curved in a smirk. “We’ll spend our honeymoon at the same hotel you booked,” he announced, “room for room, day for day.” Gasps rippled through the crowd. His fingers tighten around yours.