The Heir He Never Knew

I spent five years as Dominic Santoro’s wife in name only.

Five years hidden behind closed doors, buried under his sheets, erased from his world.

When he finally agreed to take me back to Chicago—to stand beside him, to be seen—I thought I had won.

I bought a new dress.

Soft. Elegant. Worthy of a Don’s woman.

The night before we left, he looked at me through the mirror and said calmly,

“Take the makeup off. Change into pants.”

I asked why.

He adjusted his cufflinks like I was nothing more than background noise.

“Juliana Lancaster is back. Tonight is our engagement.”

Russian Bratva. Lancaster blood. A marriage alliance.

Seeing my silence, he laughed—careless, cruel.

“What’s with that look? Didn’t we agree on this when we married? Brotherhood. Loyalty. No love.”

Then he turned, eyes sharp and mocking.

“Victoria Miller… you didn’t actually fall in love with me, did you?”

I stood there, frozen.

Because inside the inner pocket of his tailored suit—

was my pregnancy report.

And the Don of Chicago had no idea the woman he was about to sacrifice was carrying his heir.

I was Don Dominic Santoro’s wife for five years.

At least, that’s what the contract said.

In reality, I was his shadow, his fixer, his favorite weapon—and the woman he came to when the night got too quiet.

An hour ago, he had me pinned against the vanity, my dress half-unzipped, his breath warm against my neck.

“You’re tense,” he murmured, fingers working the zipper down my spine. “Relax.”

I did.

The mirror caught everything—the way his suit jacket had already been tossed aside, the way his hands knew my body better than my own, the way I melted for him despite myself.

“Lighter,” I whispered as he moved closer, the sudden his penis entered my body stealing my breath and making my body arch toward his instinctively.

Our heated bodies pressed together, skin against skin, until there was no space left between us.

In the mirror, the sight of him lowering his head, his lips tracing a reverent path over my chest, pulled me under completely, a soft sound escaping me before I could stop it.

When it was over, his fingers traced the tattoo on my chest, slow and deliberate.

Then, his next words shattered the fragile warmth.

“Take the makeup off. Change into pants.”

My hand froze mid-motion. The lipstick on my mouth smeared crookedly, turning my reflection into something ridiculous.

I turned. “Why?”

He faced the mirror, adjusting his tie with meticulous care.

“Juliana Lancaster is back in the country. Tonight is our meeting.”

The name slid under my skin like ice.

Lancaster. Russian Bratva royalty.

“You being dressed like this,” he added, tone indifferent, “would send the wrong message.”

I didn’t speak.

He glanced at me, amused.

“What’s that look for? Didn’t we agree on this when we married?”

He leaned closer, eyes sharp, voice almost mocking.

“Brotherhood. Loyalty. No romance.”

Then, with a soft laugh:

“Victoria Miller… you didn’t actually fall in love with me, did you?”

“Of course not,” I said, forcing the words out smoothly, forcing dignity into my voice. “I know my place. I’ve always known what this was. You don’t have to worry.”

The mirror reflected a woman with ruined lipstick and empty eyes.

“Then what were these five years?” I asked.

He wiped my mouth with his thumb, rough, careless.

“Mutual help between brothers,” he said. “You benefited. I benefited.”

he added lightly. “We were clear from the start. When we signed the papers, it was agreed—no feelings. Just an arrangement. Each taking what we wanted.”

I let out a soft, bitter laugh.

My chin lifted slightly, pride stitched together with stubbornness, refusing to crack in front of him.

My gaze dropped to the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

That was where I’d hidden the folded report.

I was supposed to give it to him tonight.

A child—good news at once.

His words came down like a blade, cutting everything in half.

He picked up a thin folder from the table and tossed it onto the bed.

“Sign it,” he said. “Divorce agreement.”

I looked at him.

“I’m marrying Juliana Lancaster,” Dominic continued, already bored.

“For the alliance. For the family.”

I smiled. Weak.

“I understand.”

As I stepped closer to straighten his jacket, my fingers slipped into his pocket and closed around the folded paper.

The sharp edges dug into my palm, grounding me.

This child was never born of love.Neither was I.

I signed the agreement.

When I turned to leave, his voice followed me, calm, familiar, almost amused.

“Victoria, don’t look at me like that,” he said lightly. “As if you’re wounded. As if I’m some faithless bastard.”

A brief pause.

“We were clear from the beginning. There were never any feelings between us.”

A tear slipped down anyway, traitorous, burning as it fell—but I wiped it away and turned back to him with a smile that held.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said. “I’m not heartbroken. I just think you were a little… underwhelming in bed tonight.”

The words landed clean and sharp.

Before he could respond, I turned and walked out, my heels striking the floor with purpose as I took the stairs two at a time.

By the time I reached the lower hall, my phone was already in my hand.

I sent a single message.

Prepare a new set of identification.

I’m leaving in three days.

And this time, I didn’t look back.