I have been married to Lorenzo DeLuca for seven years. Seven long years as the silent, obedient wife of a man who saw me as nothing more than a placeholder. In those seven years, I had lost count of the women who drifted in and out of our penthouse like they owned the place, each one younger and bolder than the last.
It had stopped hurting after the first few years. I had learned to compartmentalize, to shut out the laughter, the moans, the whispered promises that weren’t meant for me. My existence had become one of quiet endurance—waiting for the day I could finally leave.
Tonight, the latest plaything was sprawled across the leather couch in Lorenzo’s private lounge, her bare legs draped over his lap as she twirled a glass of expensive whiskey in her manicured fingers. Sienna Moretti—fresh-faced, barely out of college, and dangerously smug.
I stood by the bar, pouring myself a drink, pretending not to notice as she turned to me with a slow, lazy smile.
“So, you’re the old lady Lorenzo keeps around?” she mused, tilting her head. “I thought he was exaggerating, but wow. No wonder he doesn’t touch you.”
Lorenzo chuckled, his arm resting casually along the back of the couch. “Sienna, don’t be rude,” he said, though the smirk tugging at his lips told me he wasn’t the least bit concerned.
Sienna slid closer to him, pressing her lips against his jaw. “I mean, come on, Lorenzo. Why keep a wife you don’t even want? It’s embarrassing.”
I didn’t respond. I had learned a long time ago that words were useless with Lorenzo. Instead, I downed my drink and turned away, heading for the elevator that would take me to the upper floors of the penthouse.
His world was dark—smoke-filled clubs, whispered deals in dull rooms, the metallic scent of blood lingering in the air long after it was spilled. I had spent seven years pretending I didn’t notice the things that went on behind closed doors, pretending I wasn’t aware of the power he held over the city, over me. But I had never belonged in this world.
As the elevator doors slid shut behind me, I pulled out the thick envelope from the safe in our bedroom—the divorce papers I had prepared six months ago. Just one more week, and I would finally be free.
---
The next morning, the air in the penthouse was thick with the scent of strong espresso and cigar smoke. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the marble floors. I sat in the dining area, going over some documents, trying to focus on anything other than the heavy silence pressing down on me.
Then, my phone buzzed. Three missed calls from Lorenzo.
I ignored them.
A moment later, the penthouse door opened, and I didn’t need to look up to know it was him. His presence filled the space like a storm rolling in, tense and commanding. His movements were sharp and controlled, his tailored suit pristine despite the obvious irritation in his eyes.
“Valentina,” he said, his voice edged with impatience. “Did you not hear your phone?”
“I heard it,” I said simply, not looking up.
Lorenzo’s jaw clenched. “And?”
I finally met his gaze, unbothered. “And I didn’t feel like answering.”
Silence. For the first time in years, Lorenzo seemed genuinely taken aback. Then, slowly, his lips curved into something between amusement and disbelief.
“You’re getting bold,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I almost forgot you had a backbone.”
I sighed, setting my pen down. “Lorenzo, I’m leaving this life soon. None of this matters anymore.”
His expression darkened. “Leaving?”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’ve lived under my roof, spent my money, enjoyed the luxury of being my wife. And now you think you can just walk away?”
I stood, pushing my chair back with a slow scrape against the marble floor. “Yes, Lorenzo. I do.”
Before he could respond, a new voice entered the conversation, dripping with mockery.
“Oh, the wife’s got some fight in her today.”
Sienna sauntered in from the hallway, dressed in one of Lorenzo’s silk robes, her hair damp from a recent shower. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips.
“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you just strip and throw yourself at Lorenzo?” she sneered. “Oh, right. Even if you did, he wouldn’t be interested.”
I gripped the edge of the table, my nails pressing into the wood.
Lorenzo exhaled sharply. “Sienna, enough.”
But his words lacked pressure . He didn’t really care. He never had.
I turned on my heel and walked toward the kitchen, needing a moment to cool my nerves. I turned on the faucet, watching the water swirl down the drain, my thoughts drifting.
The past seven years had stripped me of so much—my independence, my dignity, my sense of self. But not for much longer. I had planned my escape carefully. I had been quiet, patient. Lorenzo may have built a kingdom of power and blood, but I would not remain a prisoner within it.
Then, suddenly, a hand reached from behind and shut off the water.
I turned sharply, my breath catching as I found myself face-to-face with Lorenzo, his eyes locked onto mine.
“What are you lost in?” His voice was quieter now, almost unreadable.
I looked away, focusing on the dishes in front of me. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking about what comes next after the divorce.”
Lorenzo let out a soft chuckle, as if I had just told him the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Divorce?” His fingers tapped against the counter. “Valentina, you’ve been with me since college. You’ve spent seven years in my world, under my protection. What exactly do you think you’ll do when you leave?”
