The Don’s Fake Poverty

My thumb scrolled down her feed, faster and faster.

Hermès Birkin bags. Cartier panther brooches. The caption read: "Kil says this wildcat looks just like me in bed."

A custom Dior gown on a private yacht.

I wouldn't even dare to look at those brands through a store window. She posted them like cheap groceries.

The more I scrolled, the harder my hands shook.

Until I stopped on a specific photo.

The date was December 24th last year. My birthday.

The picture was suffocatingly intimate. Chloe lay lazily on pure white hotel sheets. A fresh, dark hickey marked her neck. A man's strong hand was tracing her collarbone.

My pupils shrank.

There was a distinct mole on the second joint of that index finger.

I knew that mole. It had touched my face. It had wiped away my sweat. It had been deep inside me.

The caption: "He missed me too much. The snow was too heavy to drive… Baby, don't make me wait so long next time."

My mind exploded.

Last December 24th. The worst blizzard of the year. All of Brooklyn was buried in white.

Killian had called me, sounding exhausted. "Aria, the roads are closed. Snow is too deep. I have to sleep on the floor at the auto shop."

I told him it was okay. I told him to stay warm.

I sat alone with a burnt cupcake. I blew out a single candle. My only wish was for him to work less next year.

I waited for him all night, curled up on the freezing sofa, terrified I'd miss his text.

The next morning, he pushed the door open. He was shivering.

He leaned down and kissed me awake. His nose was like ice. "Sorry for making you wait, baby."

My heart broke for him. I grabbed his freezing hands. I tucked them under my shirt, pressing them to my bare skin to warm him.

"Was it so cold at the shop?" I asked, stroking his hair.

He gave a low "yeah" and buried his guilty face in my neck.

Now I finally understood.

The cold on him didn’t come from any auto shop. It came from that untouchable luxury estate.

From the long nights he spent spinning lies with that woman.

And me?

Like a total idiot, I used my own body to warm the very man who ruled the underworld. The man who sat on his throne and judged me.

I bolted to the bathroom and gagged.

My stomach churned violently. I threw up the tiny bite of that white truffle croissant. Five hundred bucks. Down the drain.

I flushed the toilet. My tears fell into the water without a sound.

With shaking hands, I took a screenshot of Chloe's location tag.

Long Island. The Gold Coast.

I didn't have a car. I took the LIRR train as far as it went, then walked two miles in the freezing snow.

The wind cut my face like glass. My toes went totally numb, but the fire in my chest kept me moving.

When I finally saw the estate, my knees nearly buckled.

It wasn't a mansion. It was a fortress.

Gothic spires. Wrought-iron gates. A sprawling private estate guarded by twelve-foot walls and electrified wire.

I swallowed hard and dragged my frozen feet toward the gates.

"Stop right there!"

A harsh shout broke the silence. Two massive men in black suits stormed out of the guard booth.

One of them reached for his waistband. My breath hitched. It was a real gun.

"Where the hell did this crazy bitch come from? Get lost!"

The guard pulled his gun halfway out of the holster. He didn't point it at me, but the threat was clear.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

My husband.

The man who came home covered in motor oil every day. The man who counted pennies with me over a twenty-dollar bill.

He really was the ruthless Mafia Don everyone feared.

I tried to fool myself that what I overheard was just a crazy joke.

But now, the cold barrel of that gun completely shattered my last illusion.

"You deaf? Move, before I treat you as a hostile." The guard shoved my shoulder hard.

I stumbled back and fell into the snow. My fingers were too frozen to push myself up.

Forget it, Aria, a voice whispered in my head. Leave. You've seen enough.

Just as I forced myself to stand, a deafening engine roared up the driveway.

A blood-red Aston Martin stopped inches from my boots.

The heavy door swung open. A long leg in a black stiletto stepped out, followed by an ankle-length white fox fur coat.

Chloe.

The ruby necklace gleamed against her pale skin. She pulled off her sunglasses and looked down at me. A cruel, mocking smile spread across her red lips.

"Well, well," she murmured, tipping my chin up with a sharp nail. "If it isn't Kil's pathetic little stray from Brooklyn."