His Discarded Wife Was The Real Boss

Eliana POV

I took nothing but my old Nikon camera bag.

On the console table, I left the platinum credit cards.

Beside them, I left the keys to the Mercedes.

I walked four miles to the subway station because I refused to use the Uber account linked to his card. I refused to leave a digital trail he could follow.

I went to Sarah.

Sarah was the wife of a Soldier in Dustin's crew. She lived in a small apartment in Queens, far from the sterile glitter of the penthouse.

She opened the door, took one look at my face, and pulled me inside.

She asked no questions.

That is the beauty of Omertà. It applies to the women, too.

She gave me a blanket and a cup of tea. I sat on her couch for three days.

I felt numb. It was a hollow, gray silence, as if someone had surgically removed my heart and forgot to stitch the wound.

On the fourth day, I woke up.

The numbness was gone. In its place was a strange, terrifying lightness.

I picked up my camera. I had not touched it in fifteen years.

Stepping out into the cool air, I walked around Sarah's neighborhood. I photographed the cracks in the pavement, the rust on the fire escapes, the unapologetic grit of the city.

I remembered who I was before I became Dustin's wife.

I was an artist. I was a creator.

When I got back, Sarah was watching the news. She looked pale, her knuckles white as she gripped the remote.

"You need to see this," she said.

On the screen was a segment about Powell Tech, Dustin's legitimate front. Dustin was smiling at the camera.

He looked charming. Successful. The perfect lie.

Beside him stood Jami. The caption read: Local philanthropist and his Muse.

"She brought me these amazing macadamia nut cookies," Dustin told the reporter, laughing with a practiced ease. "She is the secret to my success."

I stopped breathing.

Macadamia nuts.

The room spun. I am deathly allergic to macadamia nuts.

My throat closes up within minutes. Dustin knew this. We had spent a night in the ER five years ago because a bakery had cross-contaminated a cake.

He was not just indifferent.

He had erased me so completely that my fatal allergy was now a cute anecdote for his mistress.

My phone buzzed against the coffee table.

It was a text from him.

Where are you? The house is a mess. I need my passport. Stop being selfish and come home.

He did not ask if I was okay.

He did not apologize.

He just wanted his servant back.

I almost threw the phone against the wall. But I stopped.

I looked at my hand. My ring finger was bare.

But my mother's ring-a sapphire set in eighty-year-old gold-was still in the wall safe at the penthouse. It was the only thing I had left of my family history.

"I am going back," I told Sarah.

She looked terrified. "He will kill you, Eliana."

"No," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

"I am just going to get what is mine."

I need to see him one last time.

I need to see him without the rose-colored glasses.

I need to look through the lens and finally see the monster.