Death Of A Marriage, Birth Of Revenge

My husband watched as my skin melted, scalded by boiling soup, yet his hands were busy comforting my attacker. Five years of marriage, built on a foundation of my family's power, crumbled with a single, brutal act of betrayal. He bought me off with a penthouse and a trust fund, but I tore out my IV and threw his charity back in his face.

It was our fifth anniversary, but my husband, Ethan, remained distant, avoiding any talk of Chicago or the mafia protection my family once offered him. He then pushed a black velvet box across the table.

Inside was a Separation and Property Division Agreement, not a diamond. He told me to sign for Ilene's security, offering millions. When I refused, Ilene hurled boiling soup. Ethan shielded her, not me, as the scalding liquid melted my dress.

With second-degree burns, he blamed me, ordering me from our home for Ilene’s comfort. My family saved him, yet he sacrificed my body and marriage for another woman.

The love I felt turned to ash. What kind of debt demanded my flesh and marriage?

I ripped the IV from my arm, hurling his "charity" keys back. My diamond ring placed on the agreement, I walked away. From today on, Ethan, you and I are dead to each other.

Chapter 1

Aurora POV:

I raised the crystal goblet, gently swirling the Burgundy wine, and looked across the flickering candlelight at my husband.

I kept my posture perfectly straight, suppressing the wildness of a Chicago mafia daughter beneath the elegant facade of a high-society wife. Today was our fifth anniversary. I expected him to acknowledge it.

Ethan kept his head down, staring at his phone screen. His brows were slightly furrowed as his fingers moved rapidly, replying to a message.

"Do you remember Chicago?" I asked softly, trying to break the suffocating silence. "Five years ago today. The rain was just as heavy."

Ethan didn't look up. He just let out a dismissive hum and placed his phone face down on the table.

He always avoided talking about Chicago. It was a reminder of the time his power was at its weakest, the time he desperately needed the protection of my family's syndicate to survive.

A waiter approached in a crisp uniform, pushing a silver cart toward our table, ready to serve the final main course.

Ethan raised his hand. With a single, cold gesture, he stopped the waiter in his tracks and signaled for everyone to leave the private dining room.

The heavy oak doors were pulled shut. The room fell into absolute silence, leaving only the faint, crackling sound of the burning candles.

My heart rate picked up slightly. A dark gleam of expectation flickered in my eyes.

Ethan reached into the inner pocket of his custom-tailored suit and pulled out a black velvet box.

He pushed it across the center of the table, the dark fabric pressing down on the pristine white Hermes tablecloth.

I took a deep breath. I reached out with my left hand, the five-carat diamond wedding ring catching the candlelight, and let my fingertips brush against the lid.

I pressed the metal clasp. With a soft click, the box popped open.

My pupils contracted violently. My gaze froze on the interior of the box.

There was no diamond necklace. There was no jewelry at all. Inside lay a cold Montblanc pen, resting on top of a neatly folded stack of legal documents.

My spine went rigid instantly. The alertness bred into me by my mafia family kicked in, bypassing blind panic and forcing my eyes to scan the header of the document.

At the very top, printed in bold black letters, were the words: **Separation and Property Division Agreement**.

I snapped my head up, staring in absolute disbelief at Ethan's face. There was not a single ripple of emotion in his eyes.

He leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands over his stomach, and spoke in the exact same tone he used at a negotiation table. He told me to sign my name.

My lips trembled. "What exactly does our five-year marriage mean to you?"

Ethan avoided my eyes. He looked at the wall and stated coldly that Ilene's mental state had been deteriorating recently. She needed a title to give her a sense of security.

Hearing her name made my stomach churn violently. My fingers gripped the stem of my wine glass so tightly the crystal groaned.

Ethan continued talking, adding that he would transfer the Long Island villa and a twenty-million-dollar trust fund to my name as compensation.

He was so used to buying his way out of everything. It was the arrogance he had cultivated from slaughtering his way to the top of the capital markets.

I let out a harsh sneer. I grabbed the Montblanc pen and slammed it down viciously onto the documents. The tip broke, and black ink bled rapidly across the crisp white paper.

Ethan's face darkened instantly. He warned me not to lose my dignity and act like a street shrew.

I stood up, planting both hands firmly on the table. I looked down at him from above and flatly refused to sign.

Before he could respond, the frantic clicking of stiletto heels against the marble floor echoed from the hallway outside, followed by a waiter's panicked gasp.

Ethan's expression changed abruptly. He stood up and looked toward the entrance.

The heavy oak doors were shoved open with brute force, slamming against the wall with a deafening crash.

Ilene stood in the doorway, panting heavily. She was wearing an extremely revealing, deep-V red evening gown.

Her eyes bypassed Ethan entirely. Like a viper locking onto its prey, her gaze fixed dead on my left hand.

"How dare you still wear his ring!"