Revenge Is Sweet: Marrying His Worst Enemy

Kenia Hayes POV Two weeks later, he didn't just ask me to attend the Art Center Charity Gala; he commanded it. "It's for Mr. Evans," Holden had said, dangling my mentor's name before me like bait. "He's receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award. You wouldn't want to miss that, would you?" I wore the dress he picked out. Black. Backless. A collar of diamonds fastened tight around my throat—a decoration that felt far less like jewelry and far more like a leash. The gala was in full swing when we arrived. Crystal chandeliers dripped light from the ceiling. Champagne towers shimmered like liquid gold. The elite of the underworld were mingling with high-court judges and politicians, a seamless blend of crime and legality. Holden gripped my elbow, his fingers acting as a vice, steering me through the crowd. Estella was already there, holding court near the main stage. She was wearing white. Of course. "And here is the artist behind the restoration of the chapel," the announcer boomed over the speakers. I looked up. My work. The frescos I had spent six months painstakingly restoring, breathing life back into fading pigment. High-definition images of them flashed on the giant screen behind the podium. "Please welcome, Estella Duncan!" Applause thundered. I froze. Estella walked up the stairs, waving with practiced grace. "Thank you," she gushed into the microphone, feigning humility. "It was a labor of love." I felt the blood drain from my face until I was cold all over. She hadn't touched a brush. She didn't know the difference between tempera and oil, between a glaze and a scumble. I looked at Holden. He was clapping. "You gave her my work," I said. My voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a collapsing building. "She needs the good press, Kenia," Holden said without glancing down at me. "You're a nobody. No one cares if you restored a ceiling. But a Mafia Princess doing charity work? That's a headline." Something snapped. It wasn't a loud snap. It was the sound of the last thread binding me to sanity finally breaking. I reached into my clutch. I pulled out the folded piece of paper I had carried with me since the day he proposed. The marriage license. He had told me we were married in secret, a private ceremony before the big public one. I walked onto the stage. The applause died down into confused murmurs as I approached the microphone. Estella looked annoyed, her perfect smile faltering. "What are you doing?" she hissed. I ignored her. I held up the paper. "This," I said into the mic, my voice echoing through the cavernous hall, "is the marriage license Holden Dalton gave me two years ago." Gasps rippled through the crowd. Holden started moving toward the stage, his expression shifting from confusion to panic. "It's a fake," I said, my voice steady. "Just like his honor." I ripped the paper in half. Then in quarters. I threw the confetti of lies into Estella's face. "I am not your *Comare*," I declared, looking straight at Holden as the paper rained down. "And I am not your property." The room went silent. The heads of the Five Families were watching. Holden’s face turned a shade of red I had never seen. He lunged onto the stage. He didn't care about the cameras anymore. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging mercilessly into my existing bruise. "You stupid bitch," he snarled. He dragged me off the stage. He hauled me through the kitchen, past stunned staff. He shoved me out the back exit and threw me into his car. "Home," he barked at the driver. He locked the doors. "You wanted a show?" he asked, unbuckling his belt as the car sped off. "I'll give you a show. You're never leaving the penthouse again. I'm going to board up the windows. You're going to rot in there until you learn your place." I didn't cry. I looked out the window at the passing city lights, blurring into streaks of gold and red. I saw a black car following us. Gael. He was watching. Waiting. The three months hadn't started yet. But the clock was ticking.