He Chose His Sister I Chose My Crown

I loved him for five years—until the day he shattered my world.

I thought our love had simply faded, but I was wrong—he married the girl he’d called his “sister” his entire life.

I spent a month healing in a private clinic, and he never once visited.

When I finally went to see him, I found her draped over his lap, a triumphant smirk on her face.

And me? In his eyes, I was just a “gold digger” chasing his family's power, a “shameless outsider.”

It wasn't until I turned my back on him and took my place as the heiress to the Castellano family of Chicago that he came crawling back, desperate and broken.

“I called off the engagement,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “Come back to me. We’ll get married—right away.”

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1

At a party for the Ricci family, I finally told Marco, my boyfriend of five years, that I wanted a real commitment. His answer was the same one I’d heard a thousand times: "Scarlett, just wait a little longer." He was still convinced I was only after his family’s power, that I just wanted to marry into their massive luxury import-export empire.

That night, when I tried to talk to him again, he lost his patience. In his haste to soothe his jealous adopted sister, Bianca, he shoved me. Hard. I slammed into a giant glass sculpture, and shards sliced deep into my left arm. He didn't even glance back. He was already chasing after Bianca, who had stormed out of the room. Bianca Ricci wasn't just the family's adopted daughter; she was the wife his mother, the Donna of the Ricci family, had handpicked for him.

Tears blurring my vision, I stumbled to my feet and grabbed his sleeve, begging him not to leave me. Blood bloomed from the deep gashes, staining the white sleeve of my dress a horrifying crimson. But Marco only had eyes for Bianca. He was certain I wouldn’t dare to be angry, convinced I would never leave him. His mother, Alessandra, stood by, her expression a mask of cold indifference.

I spent a month in a private clinic. After surgery to stitch my arm back together, I was finally discharged. This time, there were no hysterics, no begging. I called my father—the Don of the Castellano family, the most powerful mafia in Chicago.

"Papà," I said, my voice terrifyingly steady, "I accept. I'm coming back to take my place as your heiress."

In New York, no one knew my background. No one knew I was the sole heiress to Chicago's Castellano family—a true Principessa.

Once the discharge papers were signed, I hailed a cab and went straight to Marco's company.

Standing before the skyscraper that symbolized power and wealth in New York City, I was struck by how alien this place now felt. Five years of unpaid labor, five years of loyalty, five years of love—all for nothing. In Marco's eyes, I would always be a scheming opportunist.

I’d only been gone a month, but my access card and company accounts were already dead. The security guard at the entrance stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

I pulled out my phone and called Marco. No answer.

A silent rage burned through me. "Ungrateful bastard."

And then—a call came through from Bianca.

"Scarlett," her voice purred, sickeningly sweet. "I didn't think you'd be out so soon. Marco's been so worried about me, he’s had to tighten security. But don't worry, I'll have them let you up."

A moment later, the electronic gate that had denied me minutes before swung open at her command. She sounded every bit the lady of the manor, issuing orders in what she clearly considered her own territory.

I took a deep breath, braced myself, and walked in.

The corridor to the top-floor office smelled of leather and expensive cologne—familiar, but now hollow and meaningless. When I reached Marco's office, the door was ajar. I hesitated for a second before pushing it open.

I froze.

Bianca was perched on Marco's lap. He was shirtless, his palm resting possessively on her smooth inner thigh. The air was thick with a raw, predatory energy that had nothing to do with "brother and sister."

Bianca offered a sly, knowing smile, as if she’d been waiting for me. Startled, Marco tried to push her off, but she just pouted and clung to him.

He sighed, giving up.

I said nothing. I simply glanced at them before placing my resignation letter on his desk.

Seeing my cold expression, Marco's brow furrowed. "Scarlett, listen to me. Bianca just got back from Europe, and she needs this project to prove herself. You know she understands this side of the business better than you. And—" He sighed. "She's my sister. My mother insists we spend more time together."

I laughed—a cold, sharp sound that sliced through the tense silence. Only Marco still bothered with the "sister" charade. It was his favorite shield—the perfect cover for their late-night meetings, their stolen embraces, their whispers in the dark.

Bianca, however, no longer saw the need to pretend. "It's more than that, Scarlett," she purred, cutting him off and flashing a brilliant diamond ring on her finger. "You probably haven't heard. Marco and I are getting married."

She held her hand higher, letting the gemstone glitter mockingly. A matching ring was on Marco's finger.

Marco offered no explanation. He just watched me, his expression calm. He was counting on it. Counting on me to invent excuses for him, just as I always had. Counting on me to come crawling back.

I met his gaze and nodded slowly. "I see."

I pointed to the files on his desk.

"All the supplier collaboration files are there," I said flatly. "I've already handed over everything else."