A Jilted Heart, A Mafia Don's Love

Ember's POV

The elevator doors slid open directly into the penthouse. Our penthouse.

Or at least, it was.

I stepped out, my heels sinking into the plush rug I had picked out last year. The scent of vanilla and sandalwood—my candles—still lingered in the air.

"God, it smells like a bakery in here." Karyn wrinkled her nose, stepping past me as if avoiding a bad smell. "We'll need to gut this place. It's too... domestic."

Chace followed her, loosening his tie. He didn't even look at me.

"Karyn will take the master suite," he said, his voice flat. "Move your things to the guest room, Ember."

I froze. "Excuse me?"

"The guest room," he repeated, finally meeting my eyes. There was no apology in them, just the cold pragmatism of a Capo issuing orders. "We need the master. It has the safe and the secure line."

"This is my home," I said, my voice trembling.

"It's my property," Chace corrected smoothly. "I pay the mortgage. I pay for the lights. I pay for the clothes on your back."

He walked past me toward the kitchen, pouring himself a drink without a backward glance.

I stood there, my skin burning with humiliation. Karyn was already walking toward our bedroom—my bedroom.

I turned and marched to the master suite. Karyn was standing by the bed, running her hand over the duvet cover I had bought for our anniversary.

"Quaint," she muttered. She looked at me with arched brows. "Oh, you're still here? Chace said guest room. Chop chop."

I grabbed my suitcase from the closet. I started throwing clothes into it. Not for the guest room. For the door.

I wasn't staying here. I would sleep on a park bench before I slept down the hall from them.

Chace appeared in the doorway, glass in hand. He watched me pack with detached amusement.

"Don't be dramatic," he said. "You're packing for the apartment on 5th? Fine. I'll have a driver take your boxes tomorrow. Just take what you need for tonight and go to the guest room."

He thought I was moving to the mistress apartment. He couldn't conceive of a world where I would actually leave him.

"I'm not going to the apartment," I said, zipping the bag with a decisive snap.

"Then where are you going?" He laughed. "Your dad's? He'll sell you back to me for a poker chip."

I didn't answer. I just walked past him.

He grabbed my arm. "Ember. Stop."

"Let go of me."

"You're staying," he commanded. "We have a breakfast meeting here in the morning. I need you to cook. Karyn doesn't cook."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You want me to make you pancakes after you bring your fiancée into our bed?"

"I want you to make the frittata I like," he said, his face hardening. "And stop calling it our bed. It's a piece of furniture."

Karyn walked out of the bathroom, now wearing a silk robe. My silk robe.

"Babe," she said to Chace, ignoring me completely. "Ho fame. Ordiniamo da quel posto francese?" (I'm hungry. Shall we order from that French place?)

"Sì, amore. Quello che vuoi," (Yes, love. Whatever you want.) Chace replied, switching effortlessly to Italian.

He looked at me, then back to her, and continued speaking in the rapid, lyrical language of our world—the language of business, of secrets, of family.

I understood Italian. I had learned it for him. But he pretended I didn't. He used it as a wall to shut me out, to remind me that I was a tourist in his country.

"Peasant food gives me heartburn anyway," Karyn said in English, glancing at the stove where the ingredients for our anniversary dinner still sat untouched.

She walked over to the wine rack and pulled out a bottle.

My breath caught. It was a vintage red. One of the few bottles Chace kept for special occasions.

It was also a blend heavy with sulfites. I was severely allergic. Chace knew that. We had spent a night in the ER three years ago with him holding my hand because of a bottle just like it.

"Open this one," Karyn said, handing it to him.

Chace took the bottle. He uncorked it without hesitation. He poured two glasses.

He didn't even look at the label. He had forgotten. Or worse, he didn't care if I stopped breathing, as long as his new Queen was happy.

He handed a glass to Karyn. They clinked rims.

I let go of my suitcase handle. I didn't need clothes. I needed air.

I walked to the front door.

"Here," Chace called out. He didn't turn around. He just tossed something onto the marble entry table. It landed with a plastic clatter.

His black Amex card.

"Go buy yourself something pretty," he said. "Cool off. Come back when you're ready to behave."

I opened the door.

As the latch clicked, I heard Karyn giggle. Then I heard the sound of glass being set down, followed by the soft, wet sound of a kiss.

"Bedroom," Chace growled, his voice thick with lust.

I slammed the door shut, severing the sound. But the silence in the hallway was louder. It screamed.