His Joke Our Shattered Vow

I had known Nikolai for ten years; he always knew exactly where my boundaries were.

As a family heir, he also knew how to maintain a lethal distance from other women.

But now, he had crossed that line again and again.

In that case, our marriage was over. And the Free Port I’d just secured for his family? It was as good as gone.

That port could have cemented the Volkov family's dominance for a century. But now, none of that mattered.

When I woke up the next morning, there were no messages, no missed calls from Nikolai.

I wasn't even angry anymore.

After an examination confirmed my mental state was stable, I went straight home—the penthouse overlooking Central Park that Nikolai and I had bought last year.

Seven years ago, when we first got together, we were crammed into a windowless Brooklyn basement, sharing a piece of moldy bread.

Five years ago, when we married in secret, we exchanged vows in a corner church with no guests and no rings.

Now, I stood alone in this vast, opulent house, licking my wounds.

I would have to get used to it.

I was reviewing the divorce papers from my lawyer when Nikolai finally came home.

He brought with him the heavy scent of tuberose. It was so strong it made my eyes water.

Nikolai was a notorious mysophobe who abhorred all artificial fragrances, especially perfume.

Because of him, in all our years together, I never used anything scented, not even soap.

As it turned out, those rules only applied to me.

He froze when he saw me on the sofa, an encrypted tablet in my hands.

"Katarina was a little unstable while getting her tattoo, so I had to calm her down. It got late, and since her place is on the other side of town, I just stayed over. I didn't have time to come get you."

I nodded, terminating another cooperation agreement with the Volkov family on my tablet. "Okay," I replied casually. "Got it."

Nikolai opened his mouth, but for a moment, he was at a loss for words.

My reaction clearly wasn't what he expected.

After a moment's hesitation, he stepped closer, his gaze dropping to the tablet.

"It's Saturday; you shouldn't be working. I was planning on taking Katarina to the villa at Lake Como. Do you want to come with us?"

Seven years ago, on my birthday, Nikolai and I took a photo at that villa, the sparkling water of Lake Como behind us.

He had promised that once he became the family's Don, he would take me back to retake our photo in that exact spot, as his wife.

Later, as our territory grew and our business flourished, he only got busier. He would always placate me in his low, husky voice.

"Rowan, this is a critical time for the family's expansion. As the future Don, I can't just leave New York whenever I want. You're the most understanding woman I know. You get it, don't you?"

I did get it.

So I stopped mentioning Lake Como and threw myself into clearing his path to power.

But when Katarina wanted to go, he somehow found the time.

I opened the next encrypted email and replied in the same flat tone, "Three's a crowd. I'm not interested."

For some reason, he let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"Alright. I just came back to grab a few things. You'll have to have lunch by yourself. We'll have dinner together tonight."

"Also, this 'Free Port' is the key to our control of New York. I've already invited all our allies to a celebration gala on Monday. You've always wanted to stand by my side in public, haven't you? Monday is your chance. Are you ready?"