Spencer Smith Addisonu

I went into labor on the marble floor of the Moretti mansion while my husband toasted his mistress three rooms away. I called him eleven times. He silenced every single one. On the twelfth, his first love—Sofia—answered. "Elena, stop. Dante's busy. Sofia just collapsed in his arms. Have some decency." She hung up before I could scream that my water had broken, that his son was coming two months early, that I was bleeding on the imported stone he loved more than me. I dragged myself toward the grand staircase. Down below, the gala roared—two hundred guests in black tie, champagne towers, violins. All to honor Dante Moretti, the youngest don to ever rule the Eastern Syndicate, a man feared from the docks of New York to the vaults of Sicily. My husband. The man who hadn't touched me in five months because Sofia Russo had "come home broken" and needed him to put her back together. I clawed my way to the top of the staircase and looked down. There he was. His hand cradling Sofia's cheek as she swayed against his chest in a blood-red gown, eyes closed, lips parted like a woman in a dream. She looked like a queen. She looked like his wife. I was his wife. A contraction tore through me so hard I crumpled against the banister. "Dante!" I screamed. The orchestra swallowed it whole. It was his mother, Isabella, who finally saw me. But she didn't run. She climbed the stairs and seized my wrist, nails like talons. "What are you doing? Crawling around like an animal at my son's celebration?" "The baby," I gasped. "He's coming—" "You trapped my son with that belly. Don't think I'm blind." Her grip twisted. "Sofia nearly died tonight. Crawl back to your room before you shame this family further." She let go. She walked away. Forty minutes later, a kitchen maid found me unconscious in a spreading pool of red and called for the family doctor. I delivered my son by emergency cesarean—alone. A boy. Premature. Fragile. Alive. When I opened my eyes, the room was empty except for the soft beep of a monitor and the smallest cry I'd ever heard. I checked my phone. One message from Dante, sent four hours after the maid had told him. [Heard you made a scene. Theatrical, even for you. Sofia relapsed after your stunt. I'm staying with her. We'll speak when you've calmed down.] I read it until the words dissolved. Then I typed three words. [I want out.] He read it instantly. His reply came in three seconds. [Good. I was waiting for you to say it.]

My husband signed the divorce papers on our anniversary. He didn't look up. He just slid the pen across the table—to his mistress. "Sign as the witness, baby," Marcus told her, smiling. "Make it official." Sloane Vance laughed and signed her name in pink ink, dotting the "i" with a tiny heart. I sat there in my five-year-old coat, holding a grocery bag, while the two of them celebrated my erasure like it was a wedding. "Don't make a scene, Hazel," Marcus said, finally glancing at me with that look—the one that said you're lucky I ever married you. "You knew this day was coming. You brought nothing to this marriage. No money, no family, no connections. I carried you for three years." He carried me. I almost laughed. Behind him, on the wall, hung the painting I'd bought him for his first promotion. He didn't know I'd paid for it with money that could buy the entire building we lived in. He didn't know a lot of things. "Sloane's family owns half the harbor district," he went on. "Her father can get me on the board. You—" he gestured at me, at my worn-out sneakers, "—you can't even get me a dinner reservation." Sloane giggled and looped her arm through his. A diamond bracelet slid down her wrist. I recognized it. It was the one Marcus told me he "couldn't afford" when I asked him to help pay my mother's hospital bill. The one I ended up paying myself, quietly, the way I did everything. "Where will you go?" Sloane asked sweetly, tilting her head. "You don't have anyone, do you? No parents. No backup. Just… nothing." I looked at the divorce papers. At the line that said I'd walk away with the contents of one suitcase and zero claim to "his" assets. His assets. Every penny he had, he'd borrowed against my name three years ago. He just never read the fine print. I picked up the pen. "Hazel?" Marcus frowned. "Don't tell me you're going to cry." I signed my name. Then I set the pen down and stood up. "Congratulations, Marcus," I said softly. "I really hope she's worth it." I walked to the door, suitcase in hand. And as I reached for the handle, my phone buzzed. A single text from a number I hadn't seen in seven years. "Miss Calloway. Your grandfather is dead. You are the sole heir to the Calloway Group. The board is waiting for your signature. The jet is at the private airfield. — Walsh." I closed my eyes. The name "Calloway" was the one thing in this world that could turn Marcus's face white. And he'd just thrown me out before learning it was mine.