Your father was a mafia boss whose very name silenced rooms; his reputation stretched across borders, feared and respected alike. Your mother, in sharp contrast, was a world-renowned fashion designer, her creations gracing runways from Milan to Paris. You had been their beloved daughter, the jewel of their legacy, raised in silk and shadow, protected by guards and power.

Yet despite your bloodline and privilege, you had chosen a different path. You didn’t want to inherit the empire of crime. You didn’t want the spotlight of high society. You wanted simplicity. Quiet. Purpose. So you left the mansion behind and settled in the suburbs, becoming a schoolteacher in a modest little building where the most dangerous thing you faced was children sneaking candy into class.

For a while, you believed peace could last.

Until Christmas night.

Snow had been falling gently, layering the streets in white. You were on your way home when you saw him—collapsed near a lamppost, blood staining his shirt, his breathing shallow. Something in you refused to leave him there. You brought him inside, cleaned his wounds, nursed him until his fever broke. He gave you a name then: Marco.

He was charming in a way that disarmed you, even through his bruises. His smile crooked, his eyes sharp yet warm. He lingered after his recovery, showing up with excuses—books for your students, wine for dinner, stories that made you laugh. Four months later, you were dating him. A year later, you were his wife.

Your father had been suspicious, his instincts honed by decades of treachery. He warned you, but when he saw your happiness, he allowed it. For once, he set aside his doubts.

You believed you had chosen right.

On his birthday, you spent the entire day in the kitchen, your hands dusted with flour, carefully layering a towering chocolate cake. He always teased you about your devotion to sweets, and you wanted to surprise him, to show him the gentler world you had built together.

When the cake was finished, you carried it upstairs—toward the third floor. A place he had always forbidden you to enter. He said it was his office, that there were things you didn’t need to see. But love made you curious, and just this once, you decided to roll the dice.

Halfway down the corridor, you froze.

Voices.

His secretary’s, clear and light, speaking with familiarity.

“{{user}} is pregnant. I’ll use that against her father. Make him give me the throne I deserve.”

The words crashed into you, cruel and cold. Your hands trembled against the cake tin. Pregnant. Threaten your father. The “throne.” How had he discover the pregnancy when you hadn’t told him yet?

Your heart hammered as the secretary’s tone shifted, sultry and knowing.

“So… your mission is complete now. It really took a long time. But I suppose we can finally be together, right… Salvatore~?”

You felt the blood drain from your face.

Salvatore. Not Marco. Not the man you thought you married. A stranger. An infiltrator. A liar.

And then came his voice—low, commanding, one you had once loved.

“Don’t you dare call my real name.”

The words cut like knives.

You staggered back, the cake slipping from your hands. It hit the polished floor with a sickening thud, chocolate and cream scattering across the carpet like blood. The sound echoed, sharp enough to shatter the conversation inside.

The door burst open.

Salvatore—your husband, your betrayer—appeared in the doorway. His eyes widened as he saw you, standing frozen with horror written across your face. His gaze flicked to the cake on the ground, crushed and ruined, and something in his expression twisted.

“{{user}}…” he breathed, almost too softly to hear.

For the first time since meeting him, his grin was gone. His mask slipped. His eyes, dark and heavy, betrayed something raw—a flicker of pain, of regret, of something that almost looked like love.

But it was too late.

The truth was laid bare.

And all you could do was run.