From Discarded Wife To Scent Queen

Jenna Jarvis POV

Corbett tried to buy my forgiveness with a diamond bracelet.

He left it on my pillow the next day. It was a thick, heavy slab of platinum and ice, utterly tasteless.

I left it there.

He tried to buy me a new perfume next. Chanel No. 5.

"It's a classic," he said, smiling anxiously, his eyes darting over my face for a reaction. "Better than that old stuff that smelled like dirt."

I didn't tell him that Djedi was a masterpiece of dry woods and leather, and that Chanel on me smelled like battery acid.

I just nodded. The silent wife. The obedient doll.

Inside, I was screaming.

But I had a secret. I had accepted Kain Solomon's offer. The extraction team was in place.

I just needed one window of opportunity.

That window opened at the St. Jude's Charity Gala.

It was the biggest event of the season. The Commission would be there. The heads of the Five Families.

And Ivana was the guest of honor.

Corbett insisted I wear a red dress. "To show we are a united front," he said.

I felt less like a wife and more like a sacrificial lamb, draped in crimson for the slaughter.

The ballroom was suffocating. It was a cage of crystal chandeliers, predatory smiles, and the cloying scent of expensive desperation.

We sat at the head table. Ivana sat on Corbett's right. I sat on his left.

The hierarchy was clear.

After dinner, the lights dimmed.

"And now," the announcer boomed, "a special unveiling by our patron, Ms. Ivana Manning."

Ivana walked onto the stage. She looked radiant in a silver gown that shimmered like cold fish scales.

"This piece," she said into the microphone, her voice trembling with practiced emotion, "is inspired by the complex emotional landscape of my family. Specifically, the raw, unfiltered grief of my sister-in-law."

Corbett squeezed my hand under the table. "She's honoring you," he whispered.

I felt sick.

The curtain dropped.

The painting was massive.

It was a grotesque, distorted image of a woman on her knees, clawing at a broken bottle, her hands bloody, her face twisted into a mask of ugly, animalistic sobbing.

The title was painted in bold red letters at the bottom: SHATTERED MEMORIES.

It wasn't art. It was a violation.

She had taken my most vulnerable moment, the moment my heart broke for my father, and turned it into a spectacle for the elite to gawk at.

A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd. Some looked shocked. Others looked amused.

I froze.

I waited for Corbett to stand up. To shout. To demand they take it down. To defend his wife's dignity.

Corbett stood up.

And he began to clap.

He clapped loudly, nodding at Ivana, a proud smile on his face.

"Bravo!" he called out. "Bravo!"

The room followed his lead. The applause grew, a thunderous wave of approval for my humiliation.

I looked at Corbett's profile.

He was clapping for my pain.

He was celebrating the monetization of my trauma.

The tether finally snapped.

Not with a bang, but with a whisper.

I stood up.

Corbett grabbed my wrist. "Sit down," he hissed through his teeth, his grip bruising. "Don't make a scene."

I looked down at his hand. The wedding ring on his finger caught the light.

"Let go," I said.

"Jenna, everyone is watching."

"Let them watch," I said.

I ripped my hand from his grip.

I didn't run. I didn't cry.

I turned and walked through the center of the ballroom.

The applause faltered as people watched me leave.

I walked past the tables of Dons and Capos. I walked past the security guards.

I walked out the double doors and into the cool New York night.

I stripped the diamond bracelet from my wrist and dropped it into a silver champagne bucket with a hollow clink on my way out.

My phone buzzed in my clutch.

Extraction team at the north exit. You have 3 minutes.

I didn't look back at the hotel.

I looked at the black SUV idling at the curb.

The window rolled down.

Kain Solomon was sitting in the back seat.

He was darkness personified. Sharp angles, cold eyes, and a power that made the air around him vibrate.

He didn't smile. He just opened the door.

"Get in, Jenna," he said, his voice a low rumble. "It's time to breathe."

I stepped into the car.

The door slammed shut, sealing out the noise, the applause, and the man who had been my husband.

I wasn't Mrs. Ewing anymore.

I was free.