His Unwanted Wife: The Genius Artist Returns

I waited three days.

I waited until the fog of the pain meds lifted just enough for me to manage the crutches without falling.

I waited until Ethan left for a sit-down with the Russians.

Once the house was silent, I pulled a burner phone from the lining of my purse.

Ethan had searched my bag, of course, but he hadn't checked the lining.

He underestimated me.

He thought I was just a socialite who knew how to host galas and smile for the cameras.

He forgot my father was a Capo.

I knew the life. I knew the tradecraft.

I dialed a number I had memorized ten years ago.

It rang twice.

"I need a cleaning," I said.

The voice on the other end was distorted, mechanical.

"Color?"

"Red," I said. "Total erasure."

"Location?"

"The Estate. Service entrance. Midnight."

Click.

I hung up and crushed the phone under the heel of my good shoe.

I didn't pack a bag.

Bags were heavy.

Bags implied you were going somewhere specific.

Bags were evidence.

I was going nowhere.

I was becoming a ghost.

I limped to the safe in the closet and took the cash I had been skimming from the household accounts for years.

Just in case.

Suddenly, I heard the front gate open.

Tires crunched on the gravel.

My heart hammered against my broken ribs, a painful, erratic rhythm.

Ethan was back early.

I shoved the cash into my bra and scrambled back to the bed.

I sat on the edge, feigning sleep, forcing my breathing to slow.

The door opened.

Ethan walked in.

He wore his exhaustion like a heavy coat.

There were dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes.

He smelled of cigar smoke and whiskey.

"Rory?" he whispered.

I didn't move.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

The mattress dipped under his weight.

"I'm sorry," he said to the air.

It was a whisper, barely audible.

"I know it's hard. I know she's difficult. But I promise, after the Gala next week, I'm sending her to a facility in Switzerland. Just hold on a little longer."

Lies.

He had promised Switzerland last year.

And the year before.

Then, his phone buzzed.

He sighed and pulled it out.

"Ilene?"

His posture stiffened instantly.

"What? Slow down. What pills?"

He stood up, panic flooding his voice.

"I'm coming. Don't close your eyes. I'm five minutes away."

He hung up.

He looked at me.

He hesitated.

For a second, I thought he might stay.

I thought he might realize that his wife was broken in his bed, plotting her escape.

But the hook was too deep.

He turned and ran out of the room.

I heard his footsteps fade down the hall.

I heard the front door slam.

I heard the engine roar to life.

I opened my eyes.

The room was dark.

He had left the gate open.

He was so desperate to save her, he forgot to lock me in.

This was it.

I stood up.

I grabbed my crutches.

I didn't look back at the room where we had conceived a child I lost.

I didn't look back at the life I was leaving.

I walked out into the night.

The service gate was gaping open.

A black sedan idled in the shadows.

No lights.

I opened the back door and slid inside.

"Drive," I told the driver.

"Where to?" he asked.

"Hell," I said, staring out at the darkness. "Just get me out of this one."