Eight years of devotion, shattered by her three-day charade.
I’d always believed that after eight years dedicated to securing Don Ronan Griffin’s position, he would finally make my place in the family official at the annual gala.
Instead, I watched him place the family ring—the one that should have been mine—on the hand of Bianca, a woman who had been in our lives for a mere three days.
When the attack came, he abandoned me to the flames and ruins, claiming I was “strong enough” as he raced to save her.
Months later, that same high-and-mighty Don knelt outside my art studio, begging for another chance.
I gestured to a classical oil painting I was restoring. "This canvas can be saved," I told him, "because every inch is worth the effort. You are not."
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1
At the Chicago Griffin family's annual gala, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey.
I clutched the small velvet box in my hand, my fingertips tracing its smooth edges. I had spent an entire sleepless week restoring the old photograph inside, painstakingly recapturing a moment his father had cherished. It was more than a gift; it was a piece of his legacy, a tool Ronan—our Don—needed to solidify his position.
But he didn't even glance my way.
His eyes were locked on Bianca Valenti, the visiting daughter of a rival Don.
"Ronan, this drink is so strong. I feel a little dizzy," she purred, practically draped over his arm, her red nails grazing the seams of his bespoke suit.
Ronan glanced down, his smile turning infuriatingly tender—a softness I had never dared hope for in the eight years I’d been by his side.
"Careful," he murmured, smoothly taking the drink from her and downing it in one swallow. The amber liquid glistened on his lips. Bianca rose to her tiptoes, her fingers brushing his mouth to wipe away a stray drop, her touch lingering far too long.
"Ronan, the photograph—" I squeezed the velvet box, the corners digging into my palm.
"Wait," he said, not even looking at me, his gaze fixed on Bianca.
Bianca feigned a gasp, her hand flying to her heart as she pointed to a corner of the ballroom. "Ronan, isn't this near where that awful dock explosion happened a few years ago? Just being here gives me chills."
My stomach clenched.
Eight years ago. That explosion. I’d nearly died in it. It was Ronan who had dragged me from the inferno, his voice a roar that shook the city's foundations. "Anyone who dares use explosives on Griffin turf again, I'll dump them in Lake Michigan myself."
And now? He was smiling. "Don't be afraid. That's all in the past." He soothed Bianca as if she were the one who had barely escaped that fire.
A sharp crack echoed as my wine glass slammed against the edge of the table, sending a spray of crimson across Bianca's pristine white evening gown.
Her eyes instantly welled with tears. "Juliet, was it because I mentioned the explosion? Oh, I didn't mean to upset you…"
Ronan’s brow furrowed. "Juliet, control yourself."
"Ronan, have you forgotten the trauma that explosion left me with?" My voice trembled with suppressed rage.
He hesitated, his gaze flicking away. "Bianca is a guest. It's my duty to comfort her. Besides, you weren't really hurt."
"Eight years, and you forget I have nightmares about it every single night? But in three days, you’ve memorized everything she's afraid of?" I took a step forward, forcing him to meet my eyes. "Is your memory that poor, or is it just selective when it comes to me?"
His jaw tightened. "Don't make a scene. Bianca is our guest. Show some respect."
I snapped. "She's not a guest. She's a viper who has perfected that innocent act."
Bianca clung to his arm, bursting into theatrical sobs. "It's my fault, Ronan. Please don't fight with Juliet because of me…"
Ronan stroked her back as if she were a startled, precious creature. Then his glare, heavy with the unquestionable authority of the Don, fell on me. "If you disrupt the atmosphere of this gala again, you'll be spending the rest of the night in your basement studio. Do not embarrass the Griffin family."
I staggered back a step, clutching the box so tightly my knuckles turned white.
Eight years of loyalty, shattered by a woman's calculated tears.
