I Signed Her Name Instead

Over the next few days, I started secretly selling off my luxuries.

Limited-edition bags, diamond necklaces, priceless pieces of art.

Everything my mother had picked out for me.

Now, they were my ticket out of this hell.

I moved the money through an offshore company into a Swiss bank account.

Marco was oblivious.

He was too busy planning a “honeymoon” with Isabella.

On the third morning, Marco knocked on my door.

“Samara, I need to talk to you.”

His voice was a little softer than before, but his eyes were still empty.

I opened the door. He was holding a check.

“This is for you,” he said, handing it to me. “The trust fund was used, but I’m not leaving you with nothing.”

I glanced at the number.

One million dollars.

A generous compensation for my mother’s fifty-million-dollar legacy.

The old me would have cried with gratitude, thinking he was planning for our future.

The new me wanted to laugh in his face.

“Thank you for your generosity, Marco.”

I took the check. My calm surprised him.

“And I’m taking Isabella to Las Vegas,” he continued. “The family has some business to handle there.”

“That’s nice,” I nodded. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Marco frowned.

My obedience was making him nervous.

In my last life, my screaming fits were my only shield. He knew I’d call my father’s old guard and watch his new empire burn. That fear kept me alive. This time, my silence was the weapon.

“You… you really don’t mind?”

“Why would I mind?” I gave him a hollow smile. “Business is business.”

Marco stared at me for a long time, his eyes full of confusion and unease.

“Maybe we should get the official family heir portraits done first,” he said suddenly. “It’s important for the family’s image.”

I knew he was testing me.

Trying to use a formal ritual to make sure I was still under his thumb.

“Of course,” I said, still compliant. “When?”

“This afternoon.” A flicker of pride crossed his face. “I’ve booked the best photographer in Chicago.”

As we spoke, Isabella floated down the staircase.

She was wearing a pink Chanel suit, looking sweet and innocent as a lamb.

“Darling, what are you two talking about?” She linked her arm through Marco’s.

“We’re going to get our family portraits taken,” Marco said, his voice softening for her.

Isabella’s eyes lit up. “Really? Can I come?”

She turned to me, pretending to ask for permission. “If Samara doesn’t mind, of course.”

The old me would have refused. Point-blank.

A family portrait was sacred. For official members only.

But now? I couldn’t wait for her to go.

“Of course,” I said. “As our most important ally, Miss Falcone should be there.”

Marco’s look grew even more complicated.

He was starting to realize I had changed, but he had no idea what it meant.

That afternoon, we arrived at the most exclusive photo studio on Michigan Avenue.

The photographer was a German man named Andreas, who shot portraits only for the elite.

“Mr. Corvini, a pleasure,” Andreas greeted us. “We are shooting the official portrait for the family heir today, correct?”

“Yes,” Marco nodded. “This is my fiancée, Samara Romano.”

The title felt like a sting.

Even now, he still saw me as his property.

“And this lovely lady?” Andreas gestured to Isabella.

“Isabella Falcone,” Marco’s voice went soft. “A… friend of the family.”

A friend of the family.

That’s what he called her in our past life, too.

Until the day I died, I was the “wife,” and she was always the “friend.”

But everyone knew which one he really loved.

“Before we begin, I need a prop,” Marco said, walking over to an antique jewelry box.

It held the Corvini family’s ruby ring, an heirloom passed down for five generations.

It symbolized the power of the family’s matriarch.

Last time, I didn't get to wear this ring until after we were married.

And even then, I never held the power it represented.

Marco picked up the ring and started walking toward me.

“Samara, this is…”

“Wow!” Isabella suddenly shrieked. “That ring is gorgeous!”

Without asking, she snatched the ring right out of Marco’s hand.

“Can I just try it on?” she asked, blinking her big, innocent eyes.

Marco’s instinct was to stop her, but her pleading look made him soften.

“Alright. But just to try.”

His indulgence was another tear in my heart.

The ring of the Corvini matriarch, slipped so easily onto another woman’s finger.

Isabella admired it on her hand. “It’s like it was made for me!”

Andreas started setting up the shot.

“Let’s start with a few of Mr. Corvini and Miss Falcone,” he suggested. “While the ring is on her hand.”

I watched Marco and Isabella pose. They hugged, they kissed, they tangled themselves up in intimate ways.

Andreas took at least a hundred shots.

In every single one, Marco’s eyes were full of a tenderness I had never seen.

“And now for Mr. Corvini and Miss Romano,” Andreas finally called me over.

Just as Marco walked toward me, Isabella “accidentally” bumped into a piece of equipment.

The expensive Hasselblad camera crashed to the floor, the lens shattering.

“Oh, my god! I’m so clumsy!” Isabella gasped, looking horrified.

Andreas’s face went pale. “The camera… we can’t shoot anymore today.”

Marco frowned, but when he saw the tears welling in Isabella’s eyes, his heart melted.

“It’s fine. We’ll reschedule,” he soothed her. “Don’t blame yourself.”

I watched the whole scene with cold detachment.

Isabella’s “accident.” Marco’s indulgence. The fact that I was, once again, forgotten.

It was all exactly the same as last time.

Back at the estate, Marco called me into his study.

“I have something for you.”

He pulled a plane ticket from his drawer.

One-way. Destination: Sicily.

“What is this?” I asked.

“I think you need a vacation,” Marco said, avoiding my eyes. “We have a family villa in Sicily. You can rest there for a while.”

I looked at the date on the ticket.

Three days from now.

“This is exile,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

Marco’s face darkened.

“It’s not exile. It’s for your protection,” he said coldly. “Chicago isn’t safe for you right now.”

“And when will you come get me?”

Marco was silent for a long moment.

“After I’ve stabilized the alliance with the Falcone family here in the States.”

His answer confirmed it.

He was shipping me off so he and Isabella could be together without any inconvenience.

“I understand,” I said, taking the ticket. “Thank you for the arrangement.”

My compliance made him uneasy again.

“Samara, you…”

He was cut off by the screech of tires outside.

We went to the window and saw a black Lincoln sedan skid to a halt at the estate gates.

A second later, the window rolled down and the black barrel of a gun appeared.

Marco’s face changed. “Get down!”