He Chose A Fake Heir Over His True Wife

The invitation to my own birthday gala sat on the vanity like a summons to an execution.

It was printed on heavy cardstock, the DeLuca crest embossed in arrogant gold leaf.

Mrs. Catarina DeLuca.

The name felt less like an identity and more like a costume I was suffocating in.

It had been two weeks since the meeting in the office. Two weeks of Alex stumbling home at dawn, reeking of cheap perfume and guilt. Two weeks of suffocating silence.

I turned to the safe hidden in the back of the closet and dialed the combination. Inside lay a black velvet box.

I lifted the lid.

The DeLuca Diamond Necklace stared back at me.

It was a family heirloom, a piece of history worth more than most people earned in a lifetime. Alex had fastened it around my neck on our wedding day, his breath hot against my ear as he whispered that I was the jewel of his empire.

Now, the heavy stones felt cold and dead in my hands, like frozen tears.

I didn't put it on.

Instead, I dropped the heavy piece into my purse. It landed with a dull thud-a safety net, or perhaps a weapon.

I walked into the living room, where the fireplace crackled with a hungry rhythm.

On the mantel stood the shrine of our marriage: photos of us. Our wedding. Our honeymoon in Bali. The time we laughed in the London rain, huddled under a single umbrella.

I looked at Alex's face in the glossy prints. He looked so happy. So in love.

It was all a lie.

Or maybe it wasn't a lie then. Maybe that made it worse-that he was capable of love, just not for a broken thing like me.

I took the photos down, one by one. With trembling fingers, I slid the pictures out of their silver frames.

I walked to the fireplace and didn't hesitate.

I fed them into the flames.

The glossy paper curled and blackened, bubbling as the heat consumed them. The smiles melted. The memories turned to ash. I watched them burn until there was nothing left but gray flakes dancing in the updraft.

Just then, the front door opened.

Alex walked in.

He was wearing his tuxedo for the gala, looking devastatingly handsome. But then, the devil usually does wear the best suits.

He stopped dead when he saw the empty mantel.

"Where are the photos?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

I turned to him, my face a porcelain mask of calm.

"I sent them to be reframed," I lied smoothly. "The silver was tarnished."

He nodded, accepting the lie without a second thought. He didn't care enough to question it.

"Ready?" he asked, checking his watch. "We cannot be late. My father expects a show."

I walked past him, catching a whiff of his cologne-and beneath it, the faint, metallic scent of another woman.

"I am always ready, Alex."

The gala was held in the penthouse of the DeLuca Tower.

It was a sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns, the air thick with the smell of expensive champagne and underlying fear.

I played my part perfectly. I smiled until my cheeks ached. I accepted compliments on my dress with practiced grace. I let Alex place his hand on the small of my back for the photographers.

His touch felt like a brand.

Then, the room went quiet.

The elevator doors slid open, and Aria Diaz walked out.

She wasn't wearing the uniform of the staff. She was wearing a red dress.

A dress that was a cheap, vulgar imitation of the one I had worn last year.

She was escorted by a young soldier, but her dark eyes were fixed solely on Alex.

The murmurs started immediately, rippling through the crowd like a shockwave.

"Who is that?"

"Why is she here?"

"Look at the Don. He is smiling."

Don Donato walked over to her and took her hand.

"Welcome, my dear," he boomed, his voice carrying across the silent room.

The crowd gasped. The Don never welcomed outsiders.

Beside me, Alex stiffened. He removed his hand from my back as if I were suddenly on fire.

He walked toward them.

He left me standing alone in the center of the room, a queen abandoned on her chessboard.

I watched as he greeted her. I watched as he introduced her to the Capos.

"A distant cousin," he said to them.

But his hand didn't stay at his side. It drifted to her lower back, lingering there, possessive and heavy.

He was marking his territory.

I stood frozen. I was the wife. I was the hostess.

But I was invisible.

Two Capos' wives were standing near me, their backs turned, unaware or uncaring of my proximity.

"Poor Catarina," one whispered, feigning sympathy.

"She doesn't know."

"Know what?" the other asked.

"He bought the villa in Lake Como. The one she wanted."

The whisper hit me like a physical blow.

"He is moving the girl there next month."

My blood ran cold.

Lake Como.

That was our dream. We had talked about it for years-a sanctuary away from the blood and the violence.

He had bought it for her.

I looked across the room.

Alex was whispering something to Aria. She threw her head back and laughed, a vulgar, loud sound that grated on my nerves.

Alex smiled at her.

It wasn't a polite smile. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated lust.

He was blinded by her. He was blinded by the promise of a son.

He didn't see the whispers. He didn't see the disrespect.

He didn't see me.

I felt something snap inside my chest.

It wasn't a break. It was a release.

I had been holding on so tight. Holding on to the hope that this was just a phase. That he still loved me.

But looking at him now, fawning over a woman who represented everything he claimed to hate, I realized the truth.

I was never his partner.

I was just an asset.

And assets can be liquidated.

I touched the purse at my side, feeling the hard, cold outline of the necklace through the leather.

I turned away from the scene.

I walked toward the exit, my head held high.

I wasn't going to cry. I wasn't going to scream.

I was going to make him pay.

I made a vow right there, amidst the champagne and the lies.

Alexander DeLuca wanted an heir more than anything in the world. He wanted a legacy.

I would give him a legacy.

I would leave him a legacy of absolute ruin.