Vincent didn't agree to the divorce.
Not because he couldn't bear to let me go, but because Isabella suddenly called, crying that she was afraid of the dark.
He muttered a few cursory words to me and rushed to her side.
And sure enough, the impatient little bitch sent me a video.
Vincent was in our Hamptons villa—the one I had designed for our family—cooking for her. He stood at the pristine kitchen island, cheerfully chopping tomatoes, but the person beside him was not me.
A decade of our shared blood and violence, traded for a piece of fresh meat.
Overwhelming grief and pain engulfed me, fermenting into a cold, hard rage.
Fighting back the pain, I gathered the pieces of Lily's broken frame and made a call to a loyal Soldato under my command.
The next day, an exquisite jewelry box was delivered to Vincent's desk.
Inside was the finger on which Isabella wore the custom wedding ring identical to mine.
The blood hadn't yet congealed, its garish crimson outshining the diamond's fire.
Vincent's eyes went bloodshot with fury.
He had my Soldato dragged before me, bound and beaten, and said coldly,
"Elara, you went too far this time."
"Isabella is innocent."
Innocent? The word, so light, pierced my heart like a dagger.
I shook my head, a cold smile on my lips.
Our child, our Lily, was buried in the cold earth.
And he was holding Isabella, mocking the panic born from my love for him.
Silently clenching my fists, I spoke, my voice raw.
"Sign the divorce papers, and I'll spare your little lover. Otherwise, no matter where you hide her, I will find her."
"I will cut off her fingers, her ears, her nose, one by one."
"Let's see if you run out of patience before she runs out of parts."
Vincent laughed, arrogant and certain.
"You won't."
"Elara, I know you," he said. "You love me too much. You'd never leave me over some girl."
Before he could finish, a scream echoed from his phone.
Vincent raised his hand and finished my Soldato with a single shot.
