My Moon, My Broken Vows

Back in the studio, I pulled the white cloths from the easels and began packing my art.

There was very little of Quincy's here.

But my paintings filled the entire attic.

From the large easels to the expensive brushes on the desk, Quincy had sourced everything to my exact preferences.

He had said he wanted this estate to be filled with my presence.

I packed the canvases one by one.

But the door was suddenly thrown open.

Quincy had returned with Valentina.

Valentina was clinging to his arm. Seeing the art boxes at my feet, she laughed.

"Well, look at this. Did she finally get the hint it's time to get lost?"

She looked me up and down, her gaze dripping with contempt.

"I've seen plenty of your type, climbing into a man's bed when he's at his most vulnerable."

Quincy frowned but said nothing.

I met her gaze, my voice even. "If you want him, he's yours."

Quincy reached out to stop me. "Lena, stop this nonsense."

Valentina snorted.

"You think I need you to give him to me? Don't flatter yourself."

"When I get tired of him, I'll give him back."

Quincy's expression didn't so much as flicker.

But I felt my stomach turn.

"Quincy, what am I to you two? A pawn in your sick game?"

Quincy held Valentina close, but his expression was sober when he answered me. "Lena, you are the wife I swore an oath to before a priest."

The absurdity of it almost made me laugh.

But in the end, all I felt was the cold sting of tears on my cheeks.

"You're both disgusting!"

I tried to leave with my art box, but Valentina had her men block my way, shoving me toward the kitchen.

"Stop the act. You think you're so pure."

"Go on, cook. Let me see how good you are at serving a man."

"Good enough to trick my mad dog into putting a ring on it."

I stared at the cold stove.

Many years ago, the orphanage I lived in caught fire.

I was trapped inside, and it left a deep psychological scar.

Ever since, my fear of fire has been so intense I can't even touch a lighter.

Quincy knew all this.

Just then, a soft scrape came from the kitchen window. I looked up to see one of Quincy’s men prying it open from the outside.

He helped a man in a chef's uniform climb in.

"Ma'am, this is the executive chef from a three-Michelin-star restaurant."

"The Don knows you're afraid of fire. He wouldn't make you cook."

"You can just relax over there."