I Left the Ring, the Divorce Papers, and Him Behind

It was heading toward the hospital.

For one brief second, my heart still moved.

I even reached for my phone, wanting to ask him why he was there.

Then I saw Vincent's post.

So that was why.

Not for me.

Never for me.

Their circle had always been close. Four made men and one protected woman. They had grown up together in the same neighborhood, shared secrets over Sunday dinners, drank together at the social club, laughed together, and guarded each other like blood.

And in that circle, Lorenzo and Adriana had always been the perfect pair.

The golden boy and the jade girl.

Everyone thought they would end up together.

If Adriana hadn't been persuaded to marry a foreign associate back then, I probably never would have had the chance to marry Lorenzo at all.

But now Adriana had returned to the States.

Divorced.

With a young son.

And just like that, I became the villain.

No one blamed Adriana for leaving Lorenzo years ago. No one blamed her for coming back and leaning on a married man. Instead, they all looked at me as if I were the intruder.

As if I had stolen a love story that was never meant to belong to me.

That group loved to drink late into the night at the social club on Mulberry Street. Lorenzo had a weak stomach, so whenever he stayed out too long, I would call to remind him not to drink too much and to come home early.

I thought I was caring for him.

But in their eyes, I was controlling. A wet blanket. A jealous wife who ruined everyone's fun.

Behind my back, they called me The Tigress.

And whenever they came to our home, they never treated me like Lorenzo's wife. They treated me like a glorified housekeeper. Someone who should cook, clean, pour drinks, smile politely, and then disappear.

Tonight, once again, Lorenzo had chosen them over me.

Chosen Adriana over me.

Maybe that was for the best.

At least now, I would no longer be tempted to soften.

At least now, I could finally stop lying to myself.

Around three in the morning, Lorenzo finally came home.

The bedroom door was closed, but I heard him moving around outside. The estate was so quiet at that hour that every sound carried: the soft click of the front lock, the enforcers shifting on their rotation outside the windows, then his footsteps. His steps were unsteady, heavy with alcohol. He lingered in the kitchen for a while, probably expecting to find the sobering soup I used to make for him every time he came home drunk.

But tonight, there was nothing.

A few minutes later, he quietly pushed open the bedroom door.

When he saw that I was still awake, panic flashed across his face.

It was quick.

Almost too quick to catch.

Then he walked over as if nothing had happened and gently pulled the quilt higher over my shoulders.

"No sobering soup for me tonight?" he asked softly.

I hummed faintly and turned my gaze away.

The smell of alcohol clung to him, thick and bitter.

But underneath it, there was something else.

A faint trace of perfume.

Sweet.

Delicate.

Feminine.

My stomach turned. I pressed my thumb against the inside of my wedding band until the stone bit into my palm.

Lorenzo seemed to want to say something. He looked at me for a while, his lips parting slightly, but in the end, he only sighed.

Maybe he was waiting for me to question him.

Maybe he was waiting for me to cry, to argue, to demand an explanation the way I used to.

But I said nothing.

And silence, it seemed, made him more uneasy than any accusation.

After a long pause, he finally said, "You're pregnant. Get some rest."

Then he turned and left.

I lay there, staring into the darkness. Somewhere beyond the bedroom wall, the grandfather clock in the hallway marked the hour. Outside, the faint crunch of gravel told me a soldier was completing his circuit around the estate. The house was full of men sworn to protect the DeLuca name, and not one of them had been sent to find me tonight.

Pregnant.

He still remembered that I was pregnant.

But he had forgotten that I could be hurt. Forgotten that I could feel pain. Forgotten that I was his wife.

And in that moment, I finally understood.

A man who only remembers your pregnancy but forgets your suffering is not protecting you.

He is only protecting the child he thinks belongs to him.

The next morning, I arrived at the front office earlier than usual.

No matter how tangled and suffocating my personal life had become, the ledgers still had deadlines. Accounts would not wait for my heartbreak, and the men who depended on clean numbers would not care that my marriage was quietly rotting from the inside.

For too long, I had been late because of Lorenzo.