His Unwanted Wife: The Genius Artist Returns

The sharp sting of antiseptic is the scent of my marriage.

I sat on the crinkling paper of the exam table in the private clinic owned by the Family. My silk dress was cut away, lying in a discarded heap on the floor.

The doctor applied a cooling gel to the second-degree burns across my chest. He worked in silence, his eyes fixed strictly on the wounds. He knew better than to ask questions.

The door opened.

Ethan walked in.

He had removed his tuxedo jacket. His white shirt was crisp, unblemished. The chaos of the evening hadn't left a mark on him. Not a drop of soup had touched him.

"How is she?" Ethan asked the doctor.

He didn't look at my face. He looked at the burns.

"She will heal," the doctor said, his voice low. "It will scar, though. The soup was boiling."

Ethan nodded, as if receiving a report on a damaged shipment of guns.

"Leave us."

The doctor slipped out of the room instantly.

Ethan stepped closer. The scent of his cologne-sandalwood and cold rain-mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood he always carried. It filled my nose, overpowering the sterile air.

He reached out, his fingers hovering over the raw, blistered skin.

I flinched.

His hand dropped to his side.

"Ilene is sedated," he said.

I didn't answer. The pain in my chest was a throbbing drumbeat, syncing with the rage building in my throat.

"She didn't mean to do it, Rory. She saw the ring. It triggered an episode."

I looked at him then.

I looked into the eyes of the man who ruled the underworld, the man who terrified the police and politicians alike. And I didn't see a monster.

I saw a coward.

"She threw boiling soup on me in a Michelin-star restaurant, Ethan. That wasn't an episode. That was assault."

"Lower your voice."

"No."

I slid off the table, clutching the thin hospital gown to my chest to cover my exposure.

"I want to go home."

"You can't go to the Estate," he said.

My stomach dropped.

"Why?"

"I moved Ilene into the Guest Wing. She needs constant supervision. The doctors say she is a flight risk if she's alone."

I laughed.

It was a dry, brittle sound, like dead leaves crushing underfoot.

"So I am the one leaving. Again."

"It's for your safety, Aurora."

"Don't use that word," I snapped.

My voice cracked.

"Don't you dare talk to me about safety. You are the Underboss. You command an army. You protect drug shipments, casinos, and politicians. But you can't protect your wife from one five-foot-four mental patient?"

Ethan grabbed my arm.

His grip was iron.

"Watch your mouth. Ilene is family. Her father took a bullet for mine. I owe her my life."

"And what do you owe me?" I whispered.

He froze.

His eyes searched mine, looking for the submissive girl he married. But she wasn't there anymore.

She had burned away with the silk dress.

"I owe you everything," he said, his voice rough. "That is why I am sending you to the penthouse downtown. You will be safe there."

He let go of my arm.

He checked his watch.

"I have to get back to her. She wakes up screaming if I'm not in the room."

He turned and walked out.

He left his injured wife alone in a cold clinic to go hold the hand of the woman who burned her.

I looked at the door.

The lock didn't keep people out.

It kept me in.