How I Ghosted My Mafia Wife

I let out a small laugh, as if she'd asked a stupid question. "It's my friend Aaron. He wants to go to Europe, but his passport's expired. He was asking me how to renew it. You know him, he's useless with that kind of stuff."

My tone was light, natural, with no hint of a lie.

Madeline's expression immediately softened. She even looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry, baby. For a second, I thought you were planning on leaving me."

The men at the nearby tables who overheard her shot me looks of pure envy. See how devoted she is?

I hid a cold sneer behind my wine glass. To the outside world, we were still the perfect, enviable couple.

The gala wound down around ten-thirty.

When we were the last two left in the restaurant, Madeline came to my side, her arms wrapping around me. "Tonight was perfect."

As she moved closer, a mixed scent hit me—cigar smoke, expensive whiskey, and… that damn cheap, woody cologne.

Ryan's scent.

She hadn't even bothered to cover it up. Or maybe she hadn't even noticed it was still on her.

A violent wave of disgust churned in my stomach.

I shoved her away, clapping a hand over my mouth as I bolted for the restroom.

"William? Baby?" Madeline's worried voice followed me.

I knelt before the toilet, retching violently. My stomach was empty, but the bitter bile and uncontrollable rage kept coming.

"What is it? Are you allergic to the seafood?" Madeline knelt beside me, trying to help me up. "Or was it the wine?"

Her scent washed over me again, and I heaved.

"Don't… Don't touch me!" I pushed her hand away, my body trembling.

"Is it the smoke on me?" Madeline frowned. "I'm sorry. I must have picked it up from my business partner."

That excuse was the final match on the gasoline.

I looked at her reflection in the mirror. She stood there, her face a perfect mask of innocent concern, as if she truly had no idea what she'd done.

"Business partner?" I sneered. "You and I both know what that was about."

Madeline froze, stunned. She had never seen me lose control like this. "William, what are you talking about?"

I realized I'd shown too much. Forcing myself to pull back, I said, "Nothing. Just an upset stomach."

The next morning, Madeline insisted on taking me to the hospital.

The doctor examined me. "Based on your symptoms, it looks like stress-induced gastritis. It's often caused by pressure or emotional distress. Has anything been stressing you out lately, Mr. Windemere?"

Madeline frowned. "No, not at all. We had a lovely evening yesterday."

"Well, perhaps it's seasonal," the doctor said, starting to write a prescription. "I'll give you something to settle your stomach."

Just then, Madeline's phone rang. She glanced at the screen, and a flicker of anxiety crossed her face. "Excuse me, this is important."

"Go ahead," I said flatly.

She stepped into the hallway, and I could hear her hushed voice. "What? Now? No, I'm at the doctor with my husband… Okay, I get it."

She came back, her face apologetic. "Baby, I am so sorry. One of my men is downstairs with an urgent document. I have to go sign for it. I'll be back in five minutes."

"Go," I said, feigning understanding.

Dr. Ricci continued his diagnosis, but I wasn't listening. I walked to the window, pretending to admire the view, but my eyes were locked on the street below.

A few minutes later, I saw her.

But she wasn't waiting by the entrance for any document.

She was hurrying across the street, heading straight for the building opposite the hospital—a private tattoo parlor.

As I watched her disappear inside, the anger was gone. All I felt was a cold, numb sense of release.

Just then, my phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

[So sorry, but she won't be able to stay with you today. One call from me, and she came running.]