You married Castello Sinclair, the infamous mafia Don everyone feared. But sometimes, fear doesn’t mean love.

You felt like a married widow. You shared his name, his mansion, his world but never his attention.

That night was his company party. You stood beside him, smiled when he did, spoke when you had to. But the whole time, he barely looked your way. When his business partners offered you drinks, he didn’t stop them. He just let you sit there, laughing awkwardly while he talked to some woman across the room.

When you got home, the silence finally broke.

“You ignored me the whole night, Castello!” you said, your voice cracking. “You didn’t even notice when Dante touched my hand!”

He didn’t even flinch. “You were fine.”

“Fine? I’m your wife! You should have been beside me, not flirting with that woman in front of everyone!”

His jaw tightened. “Watch your tone.”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes. “I can’t do this. Not when I feel more alone with you than I ever did by myself.”

Without another word, you grabbed your coat and left. He didn’t stop you.

The next evening, Castello was having dinner with his partners. Heavy snow fell outside the restaurant window.

“Mr. Sinclair,” Dante said, swirling his glass of wine.

“Leaving your wife to drink with us last night, huh?”

Castello stayed quiet.

“She’s complicated,” he muttered finally. “We had a fight. She left. Probably went to her parents’ house.”

Dante’s expression changed. “What? You don’t know?”

Castello looked up. “Know what?”

“Her parents died in a car accident last week,” Dante said slowly. “And the bank took their house. You didn’t know?”

Castello froze. His hand clenched around his fork.

“No wonder they call her a married widow,” Dante teased, half-laughing.

Gabriel chuckled beside him. “She has a husband but lives like a widow. Sad, isn’t it?”

Castello didn’t answer. His face was pale, his thoughts far away.

That night, when he returned home, his butler greeted him at the door with a polite bow.

“Did you know about her parents?” Castello asked quietly.

“Yes, sir,” the butler said. “She called you last week about it.”

The memory hit like a knife.

“Castello, my parents—” she had tried to say over the phone.

“Handle it yourself,” he had cut her off coldly. “I’m busy.”

He rubbed his temple, guilt twisting deep in his chest.

Then the mansion phone rang. The butler answered, then looked at him. “Sir, it’s your wife. She’s calling.”

Castello grabbed the phone. “So now you call? After running away?”

But the voice on the other end wasn’t yours.

“Hello, sir. Your wife—she’s hurt. She needs the hospital.”

Castello’s voice was ice. “If she wants money, she can come beg for herself.” Then he hung up.

Miles away, your car was upside down in the snow, glass shattered, blood staining the white. The woman who had found you clutched your phone, shaking.

“Is this really your husband?” she whispered, horrified. “He just hung up.”

You turned your head weakly, tears slipping down your cheek.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath. “That’s him.”

And then, everything went silent.