He Chose A Fake Heir Over His True Wife

Alex didn't come home for three days.

"Urgent Family business," Marc, his Consigliere, lied smoothly when I finally called.

I didn't argue. I knew exactly what that business was.

It had a name, and her name was Aria.

In the silence of the empty house, my arm healed.

The stitches pulled tight against my skin, a constant, itching reminder of the night I had ceased to exist in my husband's eyes-the night I became invisible.

I spent my days hiding in the Art Vault.

It was a climate-controlled fortress downtown, a windowless warehouse where the Family stored the masterpieces they couldn't move on the legal market.

It used to be our sanctuary.

Alex and I would lose hours there, sharing a bottle of vintage Barolo while admiring the brushstrokes of stolen history.

He had taught me about provenance, the lineage of ownership.

I had taught him about beauty, the soul of the craft.

It was the only place in the world where the titles dropped away, and we were just Alex and Cat.

Desperate for that memory, I went there on a Tuesday afternoon.

I needed to be surrounded by silent beauty to drown out the loud ugliness of my life.

I punched in the security code.

The heavy steel door hissed, the pneumatic seals releasing with a sigh.

I walked in.

And then I froze.

They were there.

Alex and Aria.

They were standing before a 17th-century Renaissance canvas-my favorite painting.

Aria was wearing one of Alex's white dress shirts.

Nothing else.

She was barefoot, the cold concrete surely biting at her soles, holding a glass of red wine in a precarious grip.

She was laughing.

The sound echoed off the high ceilings, sharp and jarring.

Alex was leaning against a shipping crate, watching her with a look I hadn't seen in years.

His shirt was unbuttoned, his posture loose.

He looked relaxed.

Happy.

Then he looked up and saw me.

The smile vanished from his face instantly, replaced by a dark wash of annoyance.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice flat.

"This is my sanctuary, Alex," I said quietly, fighting the tremor in my voice.

"Not anymore," Aria chirped, spinning around.

"Alex said I could redecorate. This old stuff is boring."

She gestured wildly with her wine glass.

Red wine sloshed over the rim and splashed onto the floor.

And onto the bottom corner of the masterpiece.

My breath hitched in my throat.

"Alex," I gasped. "Get her out."

Alex pushed himself off the crate, stepping between us.

"Don't start, Catarina. She needs stimulation. The doctor said she needs to be happy for the baby."

"Happy?" I asked, incredulous. "She is destroying history."

"It's just paint," Alex said dismissively.

"Just paint."

The man who had once told me that art was the soul of civilization now reduced it to pigment on canvas.

Because she said so.

Aria spun around again, giggling at her own power.

She bumped hard into a display pedestal.

atop the pedestal sat a heavy bronze crest-the DeLuca Lion.

It wobbled.

Aria lost her balance, stumbling back.

The crest tipped.

Gravity took over.

It fell, striking her shoulder with a sickening crunch of bone.

Aria screamed.

It was a high, piercing sound that shattered the air.

Alex roared.

He crossed the room in a blur of motion.

He shoved me aside as he ran to her, sending me crashing hard into the wall.

He knelt beside her, panic wild in his eyes.

"Aria!"

She was sobbing, clutching her shoulder, her face twisted in pain.

"My arm! My arm!"

Alex turned to me.

His face was twisted with a hatred so pure it burned.

"You did this," he spat.

I stared at him, stunned.

"I was ten feet away," I whispered.

"You willed this!" he screamed, his logic fracturing.

"You want her hurt. You want the heir dead. You are a jealous, barren witch."

The words hit me harder than the wall had.

Jealous.

Barren.

Witch.

He scooped Aria up in his arms, cradling her like she was made of glass.

She buried her face in his neck, wailing.

"Get out of my sight," Alex snarled at me over his shoulder.

He carried her out, leaving me in the silence.

I stood alone in the vault.

The bronze lion lay on the floor, its metal grin looking like it was laughing at me.

I followed them to the clinic.

I don't know why.

Maybe I was a masochist. Maybe I just needed to see the end of the story.

At the clinic, the doctor looked pale as he reviewed the charts.

"She needs blood," he told Alex urgently. "She has a rare type. O Negative. We don't have enough in stock."

Alex immediately rolled up his sleeve.

"Take mine," he ordered. "I am O Negative."

"Boss," the Capo standing guard interrupted, stepping forward. "You cannot. You have a meeting with the Commission in two hours. You cannot be weak."

"I don't care!" Alex shouted, sitting in the donor chair. "Drain me if you have to. Save her. Save the baby."

I stood behind the observation window, a ghost haunting the hallway.

I watched the needle slide into his arm.

I watched his life blood flow into a bag.

Into her.

He was giving her his very essence.

He had never given me anything but diamonds.

Diamonds are cold, hard, and lifeless.

Blood is life.

He sat in the chair, his face growing pale as the bag filled.

His eyes started to drift, his head lulling back.

He was getting delirious.

"Aria..." he mumbled, his voice thick.

"My queen..."

I froze.

Queen.

I was the Queen.

I was the DeLuca Queen.

But he wasn't calling for me.

He was crowning a whore with his own blood.

I turned away from the window.

My heart didn't break.

It simply turned to stone.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out.

It was a text. Encrypted.

The package is ready. Jet fueled for Paris. Departure window: 4 hours.

It was the response to my draft.

Don Donato's contingency plan.

He had set it up for me years ago, a secret between a father-in-law and his favorite daughter.

If my son ever becomes a fool, he had said, pressing the secure phone into my hand, use this.

His son had become a fool.

I looked at the phone.

I looked back at Alex, passing out in the chair for a woman who wasn't his wife.

I typed one word.

Go.

I walked out of the clinic without looking back.

Catarina DeLuca died in that hallway.

Kate Jensen was born in the elevator.