My Husband Chose His Mistress, So I Let Him Lose Everything

Sophia’s Pov

The air at the Moretti gala was thick with perfume, pride, and blood money.

Crystal chandeliers hung like swords above our heads.

Waiters moved like shadows, balancing trays of gold-rimmed champagne glasses.

The women were dressed in diamonds and silk. The men reeked of cologne and power.

And I stood among them—painted, bruised, and hollow.

The black velvet dress Lorenzo forced me into clung to my body like a second skin.

Every step reminded me of the burns under my sleeve, the pain in my abdomen, the bruises beneath the makeup.

Renata walked beside him, radiant and round with pregnancy, her hand resting proudly on his arm as though she’d earned the right to shine.

The whispers started as soon as we entered.

“Is that his wife?”

“Didn’t she betray him?”

“I thought she was dead.”

“No—Renata’s his wife now.”

I didn’t react. My silence was my armor.

Lorenzo’s grip on my waist was iron. His lips never stopped smiling, but his nails dug into my ribs with every step—just in case I forgot who was in control.

The ballroom was grand. Glass walls. A grand piano. A low hum of moneyed voices and political promises.

But what caught everyone’s attention was the screen set up on the stage. And the words etched in gold above it:

The Gallery of Shame.

I froze.

Lorenzo walked up to the stage like a showman, one arm around Renata, the other raising a glass.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Tonight, I present to you a very personal collection—something that represents the price of disobedience. Of betrayal.”

The screen flickered to life.

And then came the first photo.

A woman curled up on a tile floor, blood on her lips.

Next slide. A hand blistered on a stove burner.

Next, a naked back turned to the wall, head bowed, ropes around her wrists.

Then a blurry image of torn lace. Blood. A broken pearl necklace beside a tipped-over glass.

There was no face.

But I didn’t need to see one.

It was me.

Every wound. Every humiliation. Every private moment of torment turned into an exhibit.

“I call this my Gallery of Shame,” Lorenzo said, sipping casually. “A reminder that even the most delicate flowers can be crushed if they forget who planted them.”

The room laughed. Applauded. Mafia lords grinned as they raised their hands for the bidding.

“Five thousand.”

“Ten thousand.”

“Twenty, for the one with the blood.”

Each bid made my stomach twist. Each laugh was a dagger.

“You monsters,” I whispered.

No one heard me. No one cared.

Lorenzo looked directly at me as the screen flashed the last photo—one of a woman slumped over a bathtub, makeup smeared, her body limp.

The bidding continued as he came back and sat beside me.

“How could you?” I whispered quietly.

“If you don’t learn,” he said, his voice low, “the next auction will feature nudes. Real ones. You’re a whore, after all. Might as well make you useful.”

That broke me but I still didn’t cry. The moment I lost my daughter and her ashes, that was the moment I went numb.

The gala continued with toasts and fake laughter. Renata soaked in the attention like the queen she believed she was.

I stood in the corner, a statue wrapped in velvet, shaking with fury beneath my skin.

And then…

The world exploded.

At first it was distant—a pop, then a crack. Then screaming. A gunshot.

And then chaos.

A grenade tore through the west wall, sending shards of glass raining down like knives. The chandeliers swung.

A second explosion ripped through the floor near the bar, sending bottles flying and people ducking for cover.

Mafia men scrambled for their weapons. Guests screamed, heels snapping as they ran. The floor cracked beneath us as a support beam fell from the ceiling.

I tried to move. I tried to run.

But a third blast sent me flying across the room.

Everything spun. My ears rang. My leg burned from where a piece of glass had torn into my thigh. I crawled toward the stairs, coughing, choking on the thick, black smoke.

“Help!” Renata’s voice cried out through the smoke. “Lorenzo!”

I saw her crouched behind a marble column, her dress torn, makeup streaked, but untouched. She was calling for him. Wailing like she was the only soul worth saving.

And he came.

Of course he came.

He ran to her, knelt beside her, shielded her with his body.

“Lorenzo!” I screamed, dragging myself toward him. “Help me! Please—don’t leave me here!”

His eyes found mine.

But there was no recognition. No mercy.

“You’re not pregnant,” he said flatly. “She is. Find your way out.”

He turned away and that was it.

Another grenade exploded near the entrance, blasting through the hallway.

The ceiling cracked. A chandelier came down like a guillotine, shattering near my feet. I screamed as rubble slammed into my back, pinning me.

Smoke poured in like a tidal wave. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear.

My lungs burned. My vision blurred. My ears rang so loud I thought I was already dead.

I coughed. Crawled. Blood smeared behind me like a trail.

Please… please don’t let me die here, I whispered a silent prayer.

And then—

Through the smoke, I saw a figure. Tall and broad as he moved through the chaos with skillful precision.

He knelt beside me and lifted me carefully.

His face was blurred by the smoke, the backlight of flames turning his silhouette into something almost angelic.

“It’s over now,” he said, his voice sounding vaguely familiar, “I’ve got you.”

I tried to speak. Tried to push him away. He’s probably one of the attackers and wanted to kidnap me.

“Don’t… touch me…” I whispered.

“Your grandfather sent me. They’ve been waiting for you. And they’ve promised to bring hell to anyone who’s ever laid a finger on you.”