Seven Years as His Hidden Wife

Within 30 days, Niccolò Romano and I registered for divorce 18 times.

The first time, Niccolò's adopted sister stole my research results, but he hired a lawyer to fight for her.

Afterwards, he held me and coaxed, "If something happens to Lia, no one will dare to hire her in the future. I'm just helping her."

The second time, while my plane was in distress, he was traveling around the world with Lia.

His tone was helpless: "Lia has depended on me since she was little. I only look after her like a younger sister."

The last time, Lia was pregnant with a child no one would claim, and he took responsibility for it.

Faced with my accusation, he just sighed, a bit tired: "Lia's career is just starting to take off. If someone blackmails her with the child, her life will be ruined."

"You're a woman too. Can't you understand?"

This time, I didn't cry or make a scene.

Instead, I calmly signed my name on the divorce agreement that he had signed in a fit of pique some time ago.

Then I called my professor: "I've thought it over. I'm willing to go with you to Iceland to do research."

The call from Zurich came while I was sealing the divorce agreement.

Adrian sounded relieved. “Elena, you’ve decided?”

“Yes.”

“And Niccolò knows?”

“He doesn’t need to.”

After a brief silence, Adrian said, “The clearance papers will be sent within the hour. Private departure is set for the day after tomorrow. Once you arrive, the trust office will handle the rest.”

“Thank you.”

“Elena,” he added, softer now, “this is a real position, not a refuge.”

I looked at the leather sleeve in my hand.

“I know.”

After the call ended, the documents arrived one by one: flight clearance, entry papers, the Zurich trust contract. I checked each file, then locked the agreement in my drawer.

For seven years, I had lived as Niccolò’s wife only behind closed doors. I had accepted it once, believing secrecy was temporary.

Then Lia came back, and every promise became another excuse with her name attached.

The glass door opened behind me. Niccolò came in from the terrace with tobacco on his coat and reached for me as he passed, but I stepped away before his hand touched my waist.

His expression darkened.

“Still angry?”

I said nothing.

His gaze moved to the drawer I had just closed.

“What did you put away?”

“Documents.”

His mouth tightened around my name. “Elena.”

I had once loved the way he said it. Now it mostly sounded like a warning.

He drew a breath, pressing down his impatience.

“What happened tonight was necessary.”

“Was it?”

“The Vitales would have dragged Lia into that contract if I hadn’t stepped in.”

“So you announced her as your fiancée.”

“I stopped them from taking her.”

“You gave her my place.”

His eyes went cold.

“No one knows that place is yours.”

For a second, his expression shifted; then he looked away.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But it’s true.”

On the desk beside him lay the draft statement his consigliere had prepared.

Niccolò Romano and his fiancée, Lia Bellini.

No mention of me.

I looked at it. He followed my gaze, and his expression tightened.

“Don’t start.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You don’t have to.” His voice sharpened. “That statement keeps the Vitales away from her. If the wrong person questions it, the whole arrangement falls apart.”

“So I stay erased.”

“For now.”

Before I could answer, his phone lit up with Lia’s name. Niccolò looked at the screen, then at me, as if he wanted permission he knew he would not wait for.

He answered anyway.

Her voice came through weak and trembling. “Nick? They’re still outside. They said they won’t leave until you make it official.”

“I told you I would handle it.”

“Are you really going to say it publicly?”

“Yes.”

“And the child?”

His jaw tightened.

“The child is mine.”

The line went quiet. Then Lia began to cry again, softer this time.

“Thank you. I knew you wouldn’t abandon me.”

Niccolò ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“It’s temporary,” he said before I could speak. “Once the Vitales back off, I’ll fix it.”

“Fix what?”

“Us.”

He said it as if us were another matter to be settled after the family business was done.

I looked at him for a long moment, then nodded.

“I understand.”

Niccolò frowned. “You understand?”

“Yes.”

His eyes searched my face. He was used to tears, accusations, slammed doors. He knew what to do with anger, but this calm left him with nothing to answer.

“Elena, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re fine.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

I smiled faintly.

“Then what do you want me to do?”

He had no answer.

I picked up my coat from the back of the chair.

“Go ahead, Niccolò. Announce her. Marry her if that is what the family needs.”

His face changed.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

He stared at me as if I had spoken in a language he did not know.

“You’re not going to fight?”

“No.”

Because the fight was already over.