The Billionaire's Regret: Chasing His Ex-Wife

I was the canary in the gilded cage, the clean face of the O'Neill Syndicate. My husband, Cameron, was the Don, and I was supposed to be his cherished trophy.

But at my own art exhibition, the facade cracked. A notification lit up my phone: 'Watch your husband touch the woman he actually loves.'

It was Kacie, his legal 'fixer.' She smirked at me across the room, whispering that I was just a number on a ledger while she was the partner he couldn't afford to lose.

Things turned deadly when I went riding to clear my head. My saddle snapped mid-air. I hit the ground hard, shattering my leg. It wasn't an accident; the leather had been cleanly cut.

Lying in the hospital bed, I waited for my husband's rage to defend me. Instead, Cameron calmly peeled a pear and fed it to me.

"Leather wears out," he said dismissively. "Don't be paranoid."

That night, I heard him whispering with Kacie in the hallway. He knew she had sabotaged the saddle. He knew she could have killed me.

He laughed and said, "A cripple doesn't look good at galas. Keep her docile."

He chose his mistress over my life. He sacrificed my safety for his public image.

The tears stopped falling instantly. I didn't want an apology anymore.

I picked up the phone and called Sarah Vance, the city's most ruthless divorce attorney.

"I don't just want a divorce," I told her. "I want to take his empire, piece by piece."

Chapter 1

Aryana Mason POV:

I stood at the epicenter of the most prestigious gallery in New York, a statue in silk, surrounded by people drinking champagne bought with blood money.

The notification vibrated against my palm, lighting up the screen with a cruel demand: 'Turn around, Mrs. O'Neill. Watch your husband touch the woman he actually loves.'

I didn't want to turn.

I didn't want to see.

But in the mafia, ignorance isn't bliss. It is a liability. Usually a fatal one.

This exhibition was supposed to be my triumph.

The walls were lined with my soul, four years of my life bled onto canvas. Violent strokes of color, desperate pleas for understanding.

Yet, to everyone else in this room, I was just Aryana Mason, the trophy wife of Cameron O'Neill.

The Don of the O'Neill Syndicate.

I was the canary in the gilded cage, singing pretty songs while they conducted their dirty business in the shadows.

Brenton, the gallery manager, slid up to me with a smile that was too polished, too practiced.

"Mrs. O'Neill," he said, his voice dripping with false deference. "The sales are phenomenal. We have moved seventy percent of the inventory in the first hour."

He wasn't talking about art appreciation.

He was talking about laundering.

Every overpriced abstract piece sold was just another way to wash the Syndicate's cash.

I forced a smile, the muscles in my cheeks aching from the effort.

"That is wonderful, Brenton."

Then, the atmosphere shifted. The air grew heavy, charged with static.

The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

Cameron had arrived.

He walked in like he owned the oxygen we breathed.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that cost more than this entire building. His eyes, the color of cold steel, swept over the room, dismissing my art with a single, indifferent glance.

He didn't look at the paintings.

He looked at the crowd. He looked for threats. He looked for profit.

He walked straight to me, his presence overwhelming, smelling of aged scotch and gun oil.

"The turnout is acceptable," he said.

No 'Hello, Aryana.' No 'Good work, Aryana.'

Just business.

"Thank you for coming, Cameron," I said, lifting my glass in a toast.

I was begging for a crumb of affection. Just a nod. A smile. Anything to prove I wasn't just an asset on his balance sheet.

He didn't even raise his glass.

He just looked at me with that terrifying blankness, the kind that made grown men flinch.

"Keep smiling, Aryana," he said, his voice a low rumble in his throat. "It adds value to the brand."

He turned and walked away to speak with a senator in the corner.

I felt like I had been slapped.

I retreated toward the back of the gallery, needing to breathe, needing to escape the suffocating weight of his indifference.

I ducked into a small alcove near the catering entrance, hidden by the shadow of a heavy velvet drape.

Two of Cameron's Capos were standing on the other side, their voices low but distinct.

"The Don isn't staying long," one grunted.

"Yeah, he has a meeting at the Ritz," the other laughed, a nasty, guttural sound. "Kacie is waiting."

My stomach dropped to the floor.

Kacie Chavez.

Cameron's legal fixer. The woman who cleaned up the blood so I could stay clean.

"Important meeting," the first Capo sneered. "Very hands-on."

I stumbled back, my heel catching on the carpet.

I looked across the room.

Kacie was there.

She stood near the exit, dressed in a red dress that clung to her like a second skin.

She wasn't looking at the art.

She was looking at me.

Her dark eyes locked onto mine, and she smirked.

It was a look of pure, unadulterated triumph.

She checked her watch, then looked pointedly at Cameron's back.

I remembered what Cameron told me once, years ago.

'Kacie handles the dirt, Aryana. You are the light. You are the clean face of this family.'

He made it sound like a compliment. Like he was protecting me.

Now I realized it was just segregation.

I was the ornament. She was the partner.

She called herself his little sister at family gatherings. She would hang off his arm, fix his tie, whisper in his ear.

And he let her.

He never let anyone touch him. But he let her.

My mind flashed back to when I met Cameron. The Syndicate was crumbling. They were broke.

I used my inheritance, my family's clean money, to bail them out. I saved them from bankruptcy.

I thought I bought loyalty. I thought I bought love.

I looked at Kacie. She didn't put a dime into this family. She just billed them for billable hours.

Yet she had his ear. She had his time.

Suddenly, the room erupted in flashes.

The press had arrived, but they weren't taking pictures of my paintings.

They were pointing their cameras at the large digital display near the entrance, which was scrolling through social media feeds related to the event.

A new photo popped up.

It was grainy, taken just minutes ago outside.

But it was unmistakable.

Cameron's hand on the small of Kacie's back, guiding her into a black SUV.

The caption read: Don O'Neill and his mystery woman leaving the Mason Gallery early.

The gallery went silent.

Everyone looked at the screen. Then they looked at me.

The pity in their eyes was worse than their scorn. It was suffocating.

Kacie was still standing by the door, waiting for the car to circle back.

She saw me looking at the screen.

She walked over, her hips swaying with a predator's grace.

She leaned in close, smelling of cloying vanilla perfume.

"Don't be naive, Aryana," she whispered, her voice like poison honey. "You are just a pretty number on his ledger. I am the pawn he can't afford to lose."

She pulled back and winked.

"Enjoy your little art show."

She turned and walked out the door.

Cameron was already gone. He hadn't even said goodbye.

He left his wife at her own exhibition to go to a hotel with his fixer.

The humiliation hit me like a physical blow to the gut.

My vision blurred. My breath hitched in my throat.

I wasn't a wife. I wasn't a partner.

I was a joke.

Rage, hot and blinding, started to burn through the shame.

I gripped my champagne flute so hard the stem snapped.

The sound was sharp, final.

Glass sliced into my palm.

The pain was sharp, grounding.

I looked at the blood welling up, mixing with the expensive wine.

It was the first real thing I had felt all night.

I had to get out.

I had to escape this gilded cage before it killed me.