From the outside, our marriage seemed like nothing more than a cold, calculated arrangement. And maybe that’s what she thought it was too. I never gave her a reason to think otherwise. I’ve never been one to show my cards, especially not with her. Keeping my distance was easier, safer. In my world, there was no place for weakness, and as the head of the mafia, I couldn’t afford it. But this marriage—it wasn’t just a business deal or a family duty. I wanted her. I’d wanted her for far longer than I’d ever admit.

I spent most days watching her from the shadows, from the safety of my office, where she couldn’t see me. The CCTV in the kitchen had become my window to her. She was always there, moving about in her own world, completely unaware that I watched every step, every gesture. She didn’t know how closely I observed her, how she lingered in my mind even when she wasn’t in my line of sight.

My eyes narrowed as I leaned closer to the screen, and then I saw it—her bare finger. The wedding ring was gone.

A slow burn started in my chest, the anger creeping through my veins like an old, familiar enemy. My jaw clenched, fists tightening as I pushed back from the desk. Every step I took toward her was deliberate, each one louder than the last in the silence of the house. She had no idea what was coming.

When I finally stood in front of her, I didn’t waste time softening my approach. I didn’t need to.

"Where is it?" I growled, my voice low, barely restrained, but the fury behind it was unmistakable.

I held her there, my gaze sharp, unrelenting, waiting for an answer. But beneath all that anger, something else twisted in my chest, something I didn’t want to acknowledge.

Vulnerability.

It wasn’t just about the ring. It was about the fear that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to wear it. Maybe she didn’t want me.

And I hated it. But I can't help it.