Cut by the Don

Vincent was waiting for me outside the OR. "Who was that?" he asked, not looking up from his phone.

"Telemarketer," I murmured, averting my eyes.

He grunted, uninterested. Then he showed me his screen—a delicate diamond necklace.

"What do you think? Sophia would like it, don't you think?" he asked, referring to his latest mistress.

My foolish heart gave a tiny lurch. I had circled that very necklace in a magazine weeks ago. For a fleeting second, I thought... "It's beautiful. She'll love it," I managed to say, my voice steady.

Perhaps surprised by my placidity, Vincent offered to drive me home. "Before Sophia wakes up and misses me," he clarified.

It was the first time in five years I'd been in his car, aside from our wedding day. I moved to adjust the passenger seat, but his hand stopped me.

"Isabella, sit in the back," he said, a fond smile playing on his lips. "Sophia is... possessive. If she knows someone sat in her spot, she'll throw a fit. You understand."

I understood. I slid into the back seat, where a fluffy white stuffed rabbit lay crumpled on the black leather. The scent of Sophia's perfume clung to it.

Vincent caught my gaze in the rearview mirror and laughed. "She's young. Loves these silly cute things."

I looked away, remembering my own youth when I married him. My own brief collection of similar trinkets, swiftly discarded on his suggestion that they were childish and unbefitting of Mrs. Rossi.

The prenup had followed, a cold, clinical document. "Sign this, Isabella. It's business. In five years, we both go our separate ways. But I'll ensure you want for nothing as Mrs. Rossi."

My secret love for him, held for a decade, shattered then and there.

At the mansion, Vincent headed straight for the laundry room. I stared, stunned. "What are you doing? I can handle the laundry."

"Don't bother," he said, already sorting through a delicate pile of silk. "I promised Sophia I'd hand-wash this set myself. She says the machine ruins the lace."

The sting behind my eyes was sharp. I remembered a time I'd been sick, wine spilled on my favorite dress during a rare party we attended.

I couldn't see the stain on the back and asked if he could just wipe it with a wet cloth for me.

He'd frowned. "My hands are for firing guns, Isabella, not for such dirty work."

He'd called a maid, but she arrived too late, and the stain set permanently.

Now, he was carefully soaking and rinsing, a smile on his face all the while.

I couldn't watch. I went upstairs, packed a single bag, and fell into a fitful sleep, only to be shaken awake hours later.