His 99th Lover Took My Ring, So I Took My Last Breath

I left the glass of ice water untouched on the small restaurant table.

Twenty-four hours later, I sat in the back of the matte-black Maybach Francesco had dispatched to my apartment. The leather seats felt cold against my bare shoulders. I stared at the glossy auction catalog resting on my lap, my thumb tracing the image on page twelve.

"Signora Morelli," the driver said, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "Mr. Greco instructed me to bring you directly to the Grand Plaza Hotel. But if you prefer to return home, I can turn the car around right now."

"He expects me to skip it," I replied, keeping my gaze on the glossy pages. "He sent the car just to say he fulfilled his obligation as a husband. He wants me to refuse, so he can tell his mother I am the one avoiding public appearances."

"Shall I take you back, then?"

I had planned to say yes. I had planned to spend the evening packing my bags. Then I saw the marble angel on page twelve. The artist was Valenti. Madre Greco adored Valenti's work.

The sight of the chiseled wings pulled me back to a sunlit hospital room. Madre Greco had held my hand, her grip surprisingly strong for a dying woman. "Give him eight years, Mia," she had whispered, coughing into a silk handkerchief. "If he remains blind to your worth by the end of it, I will personally open the door for you to leave."

The eighth year ended today.

"No," I told the driver, closing the catalog. "Take me to the hotel. I have one last thing to buy."

The Maybach rolled to a stop outside the Grand Plaza. I handed the book back to the driver, stepped onto the pavement, and walked into the crowded ballroom.

Crystal chandeliers cast a harsh, unforgiving glow over the city's elite. Conversations hummed, then abruptly died as I walked past the velvet ropes. The silence spread like a virus, infecting table after table until the only sound was the rustle of expensive gowns.

"Is that Mia?" a woman in a green silk gown whispered to her companion, leaning in close.

"She actually showed up," the man replied, not bothering to lower his voice. "Look at the corner table. She must have a death wish."

I followed his gaze. Francesco lounged in a velvet booth, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler. Selena sat right beside him. She rested her hand high on his thigh, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his dark trousers.

Under the bright lights, the custom teardrop diamond flashed on Selena's ring finger.

"He let his mistress wear the Greco wedding band to the charity gala," the woman in green muttered, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. "