In the designer's folder, I found sketches for every piece of jewelry I owned. And on every single one, a note: a primary design for Sloane Castillo, with a secondary version for Willow Rafferty, to be made from the leftover materials.
A quick search led me to Sloane's social media. She lived in a sprawling estate, a perfect portrait of high society. Her latest post was a photo of her wrapped in a man's arms.
The caption read simply: "My love, now and forever."
I zoomed in. On the man's wrist was a family tattoo I'd never seen before. And the man was Declan.
He had told me he hated tattoos, that they were for common soldati, not for a Don. I'd believed that our wedding rings were the only marks we needed.
And I'd thought it was a sign of his class.
He just wasn't willing to be marked for me.
I kept scrolling. On Valentine's Day, he had gifted her a breathtaking set of custom sapphire jewelry, all crafted from flawless, top-grade stones.
That same day, he gave me a simple sapphire necklace, made from the secondary-grade stones.
On our anniversary, he had a diamond suite custom-made for Sloane, the center stone a perfect, D-flawless rock.
That same day, he gave me a small brooch, set with chips and fragments.
Scraps. Always the scraps.
I buried my face in my pillow and laughed, a raw, hysterical sound that tore from my throat. For a second, I thought my heart had stopped.
To Declan, I was just a shield. A sacrifice.
And all his gifts were just the leftovers, the discarded pieces from the treasures he so carefully chose for her.
Five years of my life, my love, my devotion—all turned to dust.
I cried until the sun came up.
In the middle of the night, a text from Declan lit up my phone. "Thinking of you." I used to treasure those messages, thinking he couldn't bear to be apart from me.
Now I knew. He was just checking on his asset. Making sure his shield was still in place.
I wouldn't make it that easy for him. The next morning, I contacted a forger and told him I needed a new, clean identity, fast.
When Declan came home that night, the first thing he did was bury his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply.
"Miss me, Willow? I couldn't sleep a wink without you."
I could see the dark circles under his eyes. He probably hadn't slept.
In the past, my heart would have ached for him. Now, I felt nothing but a cold, hard knot in my stomach. I was as rigid as a corpse in his arms.
This charade, this lie of affection—it disgusted me.
"Shy tonight?" he chuckled, pulling me tighter against him. A soft moan escaped my lips, a sound I hadn't meant to make. I was his toy, and it never occurred to him that he might be disturbing my rest.
Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes, soaking the pillow, but he never noticed. To him, my sorrow didn't exist.
The next morning, I woke to find him staring at me, his expression grim. The air crackled with a tension that made me tremble.
"Your phone was buzzing. Who's asking about 'document delivery'?"
I glanced at my phone. A message from the forger. The documents were ready. My new life would be active in three hours.
I forced a smile. "Oh, that? Just a spam alert. I've been getting so many scam texts lately, I set up a filter to flag them."
"Oh." He leaned in, his hand moving to the back of my head, his grip rough. He kissed me, hard, stealing my breath until I went limp in his arms.
"Don't lie to me, Willow," he whispered against my lips. "Don't you ever betray me."
I nodded frantically, tears of sheer terror welling in my eyes. My fingertips were numb and cold.
Just a little longer.
Just hold on a little longer.
Soon, you'll be free. Soon, there will be no Willow Rafferty.
Mercifully, his phone rang, saving me.
"What? Sloane is back?" he barked into the phone. "Who the hell authorized that? Stay put. I'm on my way." He was gone in a flash, not even a backward glance in my direction.
I took a deep, shuddering breath.
One more thing to do. A new identity wasn't enough. I needed to sever every tie.
Once I'd composed myself, I messaged the private investigator I kept on retainer. A few minutes later, a reply came back with a string of digits. Sloane's number.
I dialed. "Hello. This is Declan's wife. We need to talk."
