The Barren Wife's Revenge: It Was You

Seraphina Vitiello POV

The morning sun hit the Vitiello estate with a mockery of warmth.

I stood on the balcony of the guest wing, watching the gardeners tend to the pristine lawns below.

Luca was standing behind me, his hands clasped stoically in front of him.

He had been Dante's shadow since they were boys, but he had always looked at me with a softness that Dante lacked.

"He loves you, Seraphina," Luca said quietly. "In his own twisted way. That is why he won't sign."

I laughed, a dry, brittle sound that scraped against my throat.

"He won't sign because of the prenup, Luca."

I turned to face him.

The marriage contract stated clearly that in the event of proven infidelity, Dante would forfeit his claim to the legitimate businesses-the shipping lines, the real estate, the production companies.

Those were the only things washing his dirty money clean.

Without them, he couldn't pay his soldiers.

"He isn't keeping me because of love," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "He is keeping me because I am his human shield against bankruptcy."

Luca didn't deny it.

He looked down at his shoes, unable to meet my gaze.

"There is a leak," he said finally. "The city gossip column just ran a blind item. They have photos of Dante and Camilla hiking near the safehouse in the Catskills."

It wasn't a leak.

It was a demolition.

And it was me.

I had sent the photos from a burner phone three hours ago.

"Good," I said.

I looked back out at the garden.

In the center of the lawn stood an ancient olive tree.

Dante had planted it on the morning of our wedding.

He had told me that as long as its roots held the earth, he would hold me.

It was the centerpiece of the estate, a symbol of the Vitiello strength.

I picked up my phone and dialed the head groundskeeper.

"Cut it down," I ordered.

I could hear the hesitation on the other end, thick and heavy.

"Mrs. Vitiello, the Don would-"

"I am still your employer," I said, my voice cutting through his fear like a blade. "Cut it down. Now. Or you can explain to the Department of Labor why your visa expired three years ago."

I hung up.

Five minutes later, the roar of a chainsaw shattered the morning peace.

I filmed it.

I watched the blade bite into the ancient wood, sawdust spraying into the air like blood.

The tree groaned, a deep, mournful sound, and then crashed to the manicured grass.

It left a gaping hole in the perfect landscape.

I sent the video to Dante.

My phone rang almost instantly.

I swiped to answer, ready to hear his rage.

"Hello, barren bitch."

It wasn't Dante.

It was Camilla.

Her voice was light, airy, dripping with venomous triumph.

"Dante is in the shower," she said. "He's trying to wash off the stress you caused him."

I stayed silent.

I could hear the rustle of sheets in the background.

She wanted me to know she was in his bed.

"You know, he gave me the lead role in that new production," she continued. "The one you were supposed to produce. He says I have a natural glow. Pregnancy does that."

She giggled.

It was a cruel, childish sound.

"Look at what he did to my neck," she said, describing the marks I couldn't see. "He's so passionate when he's not burdened by a dead weight."

She was trying to break me.

She didn't realize I was already broken, and sharp pieces cut deep.

"Enjoy the role, Camilla," I said calmly.

I hung up before she could respond.

I walked to the closet and pulled out a red dress.

It was the color of war.

I knew exactly where they were.

The production studio was technically mine.

I wasn't just going to visit the set.

I was going to direct the final scene.