Mrs. Russo’s Last Performance

The day Cassandra returned, I was managing the fallout from Vincent's latest tabloid scandal.

In the photo, he had his arm around a blonde model, whispering in her ear, their bodies pressed close.

On social media, people were mocking me, the nominal Mrs. Russo.

Can't Mrs. Russo even control her own husband? Pathetic.

The user above is clueless. What woman could ever tie down a man like Vincent?

Seriously, I'd let him fool around all day if it meant I could be Mrs. Russo.

A bunch of gold diggers, all of them.

Staring at the screen, I had to admit they had a point.

Vincent Russo was born to be in the spotlight.

He had a face kissed by God, especially his deep eyes, as mesmerizing as the ocean.

As the future Don of the Russo family, his power in New York was immense.

He was one of fortune's favored sons.

I rubbed my temples and had just closed my laptop when I heard the sound of the manor's main gate opening.

The man at the door was dressed in a black suit, the brim of his hat pulled low, casting his eyes in shadow. A chill seemed to emanate from him, making him unreadable and dangerous.

It was Vincent.

In three years, I could count the number of times he’d returned to this manor on one hand.

But behind him, there was another woman.

She trailed weakly behind Vincent, the very picture of delicate fragility, but a flicker of smugness was hidden in the depths of her eyes.

I was about to speak when the woman beat me to it. "I'm sorry, Eleanora. I just got back to New York and had nowhere to stay, so I called Vincent in a panic. I didn't expect him to bring me straight here. You don't mind, do you?"

I understood instantly. This had to be the infamous Cassandra Marino.

The moment she returned, Vincent had eagerly brought her back to our marital home.

I looked at Vincent.

He didn't even deign to spare me a glance.

Those same eyes, always so cold toward me, now softened with tenderness as he looked at Cassandra.

He wrapped his arm around Cassandra's waist and walked straight toward the master bedroom. As he passed me, he tossed a cold command over his shoulder.

"You're sleeping in the guest room tonight."

The heavy oak door slammed shut in my face, shutting me out of their world.

Three years. He was always like this.

He could be gentle with anyone, yet he wouldn't spare me a single glance.

I didn't beg him as I had before. Instead, I turned and walked to the guest room.

I only had to endure for one more month, and I would get the check Don Antonio had promised.

Then I could take Julian and leave this place of lies and violence.