Once Upon A Promise

A fortune-teller once told me that my husband would betray me in the seventh year of our marriage.

Looking at Mario Brasco—his eyes filled with nothing but me—I couldn't help but scoff at the fortune-teller's words.

Everyone knew Mario loved me enough to give up everything.

When I caught a simple cold, he abandoned a multimillion-dollar mafia deal and flew home just to be by my side.

When I was kidnapped, he took three bullets rescuing me, yet never once thought of giving up.

When my sister confessed her love to him, desperate enough to end her own life, he turned her down without hesitation and forced my father to send her overseas.

But on the seventh anniversary of our marriage, I received an unexpected email from an unknown sender.

After reading it, I asked Mario for a divorce.

A fortune-teller once told me that in the seventh year of my marriage, my husband would abandon me and fall in love with someone else.

Back then, Mario Brasco, still young and hot-headed, kicked the fortune-teller's table over and snapped, "Nonsense! I would never do anything to betray Alessia."

Years later, he became the Don whose name alone made others tremble. Yet to me, he was the man who loved me to the bone, who couldn't bear to see even a frown on my face.

For six years after our marriage, he spoiled me like a child. But the fortune-teller's words lingered in my mind like a curse that refused to fade.

My father's illegitimate daughter, Carmilla Marino, kept clinging to Mario—so persistently that she once confessed her love to him in front of me and tried to kill herself.

Disgust flickered across Mario's face as he forced my father to send her abroad.

After that, I finally allowed myself to relax.

But on the seventh anniversary of our marriage, I received an email from an unknown sender. Inside was a medical report—Carmilla's, showing she was two months pregnant.

Beneath it was a single line of text: [Alessia, Mario gave you his love, but he gave me his child.

Scrolling further, I found a photo—Mario and Carmilla tangled together on a bed, lost in passion.

It felt like plunging into an icy abyss.

I waited for him in the living room all night, but Mario never came home.

I printed the divorce papers and placed them neatly on the table.

By dawn, he finally returned. When he saw the medical report on the computer screen, panic flashed across his face. He slammed the laptop to the floor.

"Alessia, listen to me," he said, voice trembling. "Carmilla faked those photos. Nothing happened between us. You have to believe me. She's still angry that I forced her to go abroad. She's doing this just to break us apart."

His tone was desperate, almost convincing. But I could still see the lipstick stain on his collar.

I stared at him in silence, disappointment sitting heavy in my chest.

"Alessia, I'll call her right now. I'll make her explain everything."

He pulled out his phone, and the moment the call connected, he barked into it, "Carmilla, if you dare send Alessia any more lies to come between us, I'll personally send you to meet God."

He hung up before she could say a word.

"Alessia, now you can rest easy, can't you?"

Then his phone rang. He glanced at the screen and quickly flipped it face down. His voice softened, weary.

"Alessia, I have some business to take care of. Don't worry, I'll fix this. But I won't agree to a divorce."

He left in long, hurried strides. But I had already seen the caller ID. It was Carmilla.

Watching his retreating figure, I stepped into the courtyard. Around me bloomed the roses he'd planted with his own hands—my favorite.

Scenes of his tenderness flashed through my mind, yet the ultrasound image I'd seen burned my eyes like fire.

When Mario returned later that night, exhaustion shadowed his face. Out of habit, he tried to pull me into his arms.

I turned away.

"I just want to be alone," I said, and walked to the guest room, leaving him frozen in the doorway.

Near midnight, Carmilla sent a flood of new photos—hundreds of flight records showing Mario's secret trips to see her, and more of them in bed together, intimately entangled.

The most painful part was one particular date—yesterday. Our wedding anniversary.

Carmilla: [Dear sister, I'm coming home tomorrow. I just can't stop missing Mario.]

I laughed bitterly, saved the photos, blocked her number, and lay awake till dawn.

The fortune-teller had been wrong. Mario hadn't fallen in love with someone else in the seventh year of our marriage. He had loved her long before that.