From Mafia Wife To Free Woman

Elara POV:

The next morning, I feigned a headache, a plausible excuse after the "herbal tea." Dante was already gone. The silence he left behind was my chance.

I used the time to dig. I knew his laptop password—the date his father was gunned down, a constant reminder of the throne he'd inherited. Deep within the encrypted files, I found it. A private group chat named 'The Kennel'.

My hands shook as I clicked it open. The members were his closest men. The subject of their discussion was me.

They called me 'The Mare'.

I scrolled through months of messages, my stomach churning. There were photos of me sleeping. There were comments rating my body. There was a grotesque calendar detailing my ovulation cycle, with bets placed on which month he would "succeed."

'The Mare is looking fertile today.'

'Did you break her yet, boss?'

'Heard she's finally pregnant. Time to collect my winnings.'

This gallery represented my life—my soul—reduced to crude jokes among violent men. They saw me as livestock.

My revulsion was interrupted by a ping from my phone. It was a group text from Isabella.

'You are cordially invited to celebrate the third anniversary of my brother, Dante, and his lovely wife, Elara. Let's toast to their future and the legacy to come.'

Attached was a picture of Dante and me from our wedding day. He looked powerful. I looked terrified.

A cold premonition slid down my spine. The anniversary party. This was the stage for the humiliation she had planned. The champagne.

Acting on pure instinct, I forwarded every file, every screenshot from 'The Kennel' to a cloud account under a fake name. I backed it up twice. Evidence was power.

Just as I finished, the bedroom door swung open. Dante stood there, holding a velvet box. My heart hammered against my ribs. I shoved the laptop under the covers.

"I thought you were out," I said, trying to keep my voice even.

"I came back. For you," he said. He sat on the edge of the bed.

"A gift. For our anniversary," he said, opening the box.

Inside, nestled on a bed of black satin, was a diamond necklace. It was a collar of glittering stones that screamed ownership.

"It's beautiful," I lied, the words tasting like ash.

He took it out and fastened it around my neck. His fingers were cold against my skin. "You'll wear it tonight."

It wasn't a question.

"I'm not feeling well, Dante," I tried, my last attempt at escape. "The headache..."

"You'll be fine," he said, his tone hardening. "You will be there. You will smile. And you will be the perfect, doting wife. Do you understand me?" His hand moved from the clasp to my throat, his thumb pressing lightly against my pulse point. It was a warning.

I nodded, the word 'yes' trapped in my throat.

He stood up, satisfied. "I'll send the stylist in an hour."

As he left, I placed a hand over my still-flat stomach. I had to endure this. For my child. I would play the part of the perfect, docile wife one last time. And then we would be free.