His Unwanted Wife: The Genius Artist Returns

On our fifth anniversary, my husband slid a black velvet box across the table.

Inside wasn't a diamond ring, but a fountain pen.

"Sign the separation papers, Aurora," Ethan said. "Ilene is spiraling again. She needs to see we are over."

I was the wife of the Mafia Underboss, yet I was being discarded for the Family Ward.

Before I could answer, Ilene stormed into the restaurant.

She shrieked that I was still wearing his ring and threw a bowl of boiling lobster bisque directly at my chest.

As my skin blistered and peeled, Ethan didn't rush to me.

He hugged her.

"It's okay," he soothed the woman who had just assaulted me. "I've got you."

The betrayal didn't stop there.

When Ilene pushed me down the stairs days later, Ethan erased the security footage to protect her from the police.

When I was kidnapped by his enemies, I called his emergency line—the one meant for life-or-death situations.

He declined the call.

He was too busy holding Ilene's hand to save his wife.

That was the moment the chain broke.

As the kidnapper's van sped onto the highway, I didn't wait for a rescue that would never come.

I opened the door and jumped into the dark.

Everyone thought Aurora Bruce died on that pavement.

Two years later, Ethan stood outside a gallery in Paris, looking at the woman he had destroyed, finally realizing he had protected the wrong one.

Chapter 1

My husband slid the black velvet box across the crisp white tablecloth.

But instead of the diamond ring expected for a fifth anniversary, a black fountain pen rested inside, waiting for me to sign the separation papers that would save his mistress's life.

"Happy Anniversary, Aurora."

I stared at the pen.

The gold nib glinted under the chandelier lights of Le Bernardin.

Around us, the city's elite dined in hushed tones, unaware that the man sitting across from me was the Underboss of the Bruce Crime Family.

Ethan Bruce didn't look like a monster. He looked like a king.

His tuxedo fit his broad shoulders with military precision, concealing the gun holstered beneath his left arm. His eyes were the color of burnt whiskey-cold, detached, and utterly void of the love he'd once sworn.

"Sign it, Rory," he said.

His voice was low. It was the same tone he used when ordering a hit on a rival cartel member.

"Ilene is spiraling again. She threatened to open her wrists if she didn't see proof that we were over."

I didn't reach for the pen.

Instead, I looked at his hands.

Those large, capable hands that had promised to protect me at the altar were now pushing me into exile for the thirty-eighth time.

This was our twisted ritual.

Ilene Wolf, the Family Ward, would have a manic episode. She would demand my removal. And Ethan, bound by a twisted debt of honor to her dead father, would banish me to a safe house until she calmed down.

Thirty-eight times I had packed a bag.

Thirty-eight times I had played the obedient Mafia wife.

But tonight was our anniversary.

"Is she here?" I asked.

Ethan didn't flinch.

"She's in the car. She needs to see you leave the restaurant alone."

The humiliation washed over me like ice water.

He had brought her to our anniversary dinner. He had left her in the limo like a pet waiting to be let out, while he discarded his wife inside.

"I am not leaving, Ethan."

The air around our table dropped ten degrees.

Ethan leaned forward. The movement was slight, but it radiated the lethal menace that made grown men wet themselves.

"Do not test me tonight, Aurora. I have had a long week. I put three bodies in the ground yesterday to keep our borders secure. I do not have the patience for your defiance."

He wasn't my husband right now.

He was the Underboss.

And I was just an asset that was malfunctioning.

I picked up the pen.

My hand didn't shake; I had learned to freeze my insides a long time ago.

I signed my name on the linen napkin, not the legal paper.

"There," I said. "A souvenir."

Ethan's jaw tightened.

Before he could speak, a shadow fell over our table.

I looked up.

Ilene stood there.

She wasn't in the car. She was wearing a red dress that was too tight and too loud for this venue. Her eyes were wide, manic, darting between Ethan and me.

"You didn't do it," she whispered.

Ethan stood up fast.

"Ilene, go back to the car."

She ignored him.

She looked at me with pure, unadulterated hatred.

"You're still wearing his ring!" she shrieked.

The restaurant went silent. Waiters froze.

Ilene grabbed the bowl of lobster bisque from the waiter's tray next to us. It was steaming hot.

Ethan moved, but he moved toward her, not me.

He reached out to calm her.

Ilene swung her arm.

The thick, orange liquid hit me squarely in the chest.

The heat was instantaneous. It seared through my silk dress, scalding the skin of my cleavage and neck.

I gasped, the pain stealing the air from my lungs.

I stood up, clawing at the fabric, trying to pull the burning silk away from my skin.

Ethan caught Ilene's wrists.

He didn't look at me. He looked at her.

"Calm down," he soothed. "It's okay. I've got you."

I stood there, dripping with soup, my skin blistering, surrounded by staring strangers.

My husband was hugging the woman who had just assaulted me.