My breath hitched as the words sank in. My best friend. My ex-husband. The two people I had once trusted more than anyone had conspired against me.
I stepped back, feeling my stomach twist with a sickening churn of emotions. In my retreat, my elbow struck the edge of a glass vase—a priceless piece they had won at an auction. It wobbled, then crashed to the floor with an earsplitting shatter.
The room fell into stunned silence. Sharon’s eyes widened in shock. Pierre’s expression turned cold. And then, Sharon, standing just behind him, asked the inevitable question.
“Who helped you escape the prison?”
I ignored her. Although my focus was locked on her. My palm burned with fury before I even realized I had raised my hand and slapped her across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the room.
“Y-You betrayed me,” I whispered, my voice trembling with rage. “You were my best friend, Sharon.”
Sharon, clutching her cheek, let out a bitter laugh. “And you were blind, Dionne. You never saw the truth.”
She turned her gaze toward Pierre, and that was when the final blow landed. “Pierre never loved you. Our relationship started long before your marriage. It was all for your wealth—the inheritance your father left you.”
I felt my chest tighten, suffocated by the weight of betrayal. I turned to Pierre, hoping for denial, some desperate excuse. But he simply shrugged.
“She’s right,” he said, voice devoid of remorse. “You were just a means to an end, Dionne. And I never wanted a child with you. I only needed your fortune.”
I staggered back as if struck. My whole marriage, my life—it had all been a lie. Anguish welled up inside me, but before I could react, Pierre pulled out his phone.
He dialed with ease, his voice calm. “Hello? Yes. My ex-wife is here. She escaped prison. Send the police.”
Panic surged through me. My mind raced for an escape, but then—
BOOM.
An explosion rocked the house.
The ground trembled beneath us. Smoke filled the hallways, and the chandelier above shook violently. Fire erupted from the far end of the mansion, swallowing furniture and décor in its path.
Sharon screamed, clutching Pierre’s arm. “What the hell is happening?!”
The answer didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that they ran, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the chaos.
My ears rang from the explosion, my body frozen. But before the flames could consume me, strong hands grabbed my wrist.
“Come on!”
Francis. His grip was firm, his face unreadable in the flickering firelight. He pulled me through the collapsing house, past burning debris, until we burst into the garden.
There, parked on the open lawn, was a sleek black helicopter.
We climbed in as the rotors roared to life. Just as the police sirens became audible in the distance, we lifted into the sky, escaping into the night.
Inside the helicopter, I stared at Francis, my mind still reeling.
“Why?” I asked breathlessly. “Why are you helping me? Is it really just because you want me to be your surrogate?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed ahead, his jaw clenched. The silence stretched until the city lights blurred beneath us, fading into the darkness.
Half an hour later, we landed safely at his mansion.
Days passed in a strange, quiet lull. Francis offered me comfort—his presence steady, his words few but reassuring. And for the first time, I let myself breathe.
But curiosity gnawed at me. I needed to know more about the man who had risked so much for me.
One evening, I found the courage to ask.
“Who are you, really?”
Francis studied me for a long moment before exhaling deeply.
“I was once a Mafia Boss.”
My breath caught. He continued, his tone even, but laced with something distant.
“I built an empire—businesses, power, influence. But my family abandoned me when they found out I had cancer. They thought I was too weak to lead, so they cut me off. Left me with nothing.”
His eyes darkened, shadows of the past flickering across his face.
I felt a sharp pang in my chest. “Cancer?”
“Stage 2 Leukemia,” he confirmed. “And the treatments… they left me barren.”
He took off his wig.
The weight of his words settled over me. He had lost everything—just like I had. Without thinking, I reached for his hand, squeezing it gently.
He didn’t pull away.
Over the next month, a strange routine formed. Francis, despite everything, treated me with care. He asked me to stay—to play the role of his wife. And while I never saw it as romantic, I honored his request. I took care of him when his health wavered, stayed by his side through the difficult nights.
I told myself it was just a temporary arrangement, just a means to survive.
But then, one day, he shattered that illusion.
Francis knelt before me, a ring in his hand.
“Marry me, Dionne.”
