Kicked Out by My Husband, I Married the Mafia Boss

POV: Chloe

The wall clock clicked to midnight.

Three years. Exactly three years since I signed our marriage certificate and promised to love Mark through everything.

The roasted beef tenderloin had gone cold under the silver dome. The red wine sat untouched in the decanter. Beside Mark’s plate rested a dark velvet box holding the limited-edition Audemars Piguet watch I spent eight months of scrimping to buy him.

The front lock rattled.

I jumped up, smoothing down my dress, and rushed toward the foyer. "Mark, you're finally—"

The words died in my throat.

Mark didn't look up at me. His arm was wrapped firmly around another woman’s waist, shielding her from the draft as he helped her slip off her wet trench coat.

It was Jessica. His first love. The woman whose framed photograph he kept buried in his study desk.

"Careful, Jess," Mark murmured, his voice softer than anything he had offered me in months. "Watch the step."

Jessica leaned her weight against his chest, clutching his charcoal suit jacket tightly around her shoulders. Around her neck, sparkling brightly under the entryway chandelier, was the custom teardrop diamond necklace I spent three weeks searching for—the piece Mark claimed he wanted to give his mother for her birthday next week.

"Oh, Mark, it's freezing out there," Jessica pouted, pressing closer to him. "My heels are completely ruined from that puddle outside the restaurant. You told me the driver would bring an umbrella."

"I know, honey. I’m sorry. I'll buy you ten more pairs tomorrow," he promised without hesitation.

Then Jessica lifted her chin and met my gaze. A tiny, mocking smirk curved her painted red lips before she tucked her face back into Mark's lapel.

"Mark?" I managed to say, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. "What is this?"

Mark finally turned his head toward me. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by an instant scowl.

"Why are you still awake, Chloe?" he snapped, pulling his tie loose. "I told you not to wait up."

"It's midnight," I said. My voice sounded hollow in the quiet hallway. "It's our third wedding anniversary. You swore you’d be home by eight."

"Something came up," Mark said, cutting me off with a flick of his wrist. "Jessica just landed from Paris tonight. Her flight was delayed, the weather turned terrible, and her luggage got sent to the wrong terminal. She doesn't have a hotel booked."

"So you brought her here?" I pointed toward the dining room, where the candles had melted into messy pools of wax. "On our anniversary? While she’s wearing the necklace you supposedly bought for your mother?"

Jessica shrank back, feigning shock. "Mark... did you give me something of hers? I can take it off. I didn't mean to cause trouble between you two. Maybe I should just sleep at the train station..."

"Don't be ridiculous, Jess," Mark said sharply, his hand tightening on her waist to keep her in place. He glared at me. "Stop acting like a jealous maniac, Chloe. The necklace belongs to whoever I give it to. I paid for it, didn't I?"

"I designed the setting with the jeweler, Mark. You told me it was for your mother's sixty-fifth."

"Plans change," he growled. "Jessica needs to feel welcomed. She has severe trauma from storms, and it’s pouring outside. She’s staying here."

"There are luxury hotels two blocks away."

"I said she's staying here!" Mark raised his voice, his temples pulsing with anger. "Why do you have to turn everything into an interrogation? She needs a hot bath and a comfortable bed."

He kicked his shoes off and began guiding her toward the staircase.

"Go set up the master bedroom," he ordered me over his shoulder.

I stopped breathing for a second. "What did you just say?"

"You heard me," Mark stated, not bothering to turn around. "Jessica needs a spacious room with an en-suite bath so she doesn't have to walk through the hall. You take the guest room downstairs tonight."

"You want me to give up my own bedroom to your ex-girlfriend?"

"It’s my house, Chloe!" Mark spun around on the bottom step, sneering down at me. "Every single brick of this villa was bought with my family's money. What did you bring into this marriage? Nothing. You were a penniless orphan living out of a shared flat when I took pity on you."

The insult hung between us, ugly and sharp.

"Mark, please," Jessica whispered, resting a delicate hand on his arm. "Don't fight with your wife because of me. I don't mind sleeping on the couch..."

"No, Jess. You're our guest," Mark said, soothing her before firing another glare at me. "An orphan obviously doesn't understand basic hospitality. You eat my food, live under my roof, and spend my allowance. If I tell you to sleep in the guest room, you go to the guest room."

I stared at him.

The dining table sat behind me, loaded with dishes I spent five hours chopping, braising, and baking. The gift box held an eight-thousand-dollar watch I bought using every cent saved from my secret design commissions. For three years, I scrubbed his shirts, catered to his mother's endless demands, and swallowed every cruel remark, believing love required sacrifice.

Right at this second, the illusion shattered.

The tightness in my chest simply dissolved. The pain vanished, leaving behind an icy, spotless clarity.

I didn't yell. I didn't shed a single tear.

Instead, a quiet chuckle escaped my lips.

Mark frowned, thrown off by my expression. "What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing," I answered smoothly, stepping aside to clear the path to the stairs. "You're right, Mark. Hospitality comes first. Take the master suite. Sleep well, Jessica."

Jessica’s eyes narrowed slightly, surprised by my sudden surrender, but she leaned into Mark with a smug smile. "Thank you, Chloe. You're very sweet."

"Don't bother waiting on us in the morning," Mark tossed back coldly as he led her up the stairs. "Jessica likes breakfast from the French bakery on Fourth Street. Make sure you walk over and pick it up by eight."

Their footsteps faded down the second-floor hallway. A moment later, the master bedroom door clicked shut, followed by the muffled sound of Jessica's high-pitched giggle.

I stood alone in the dark foyer.

I walked over to the dining table, picked up the velvet box containing the watch, and tossed it into the stainless-steel trash can beneath the sink. It landed with a dull thud against the peelings and scrapings.

Then I pulled my phone from my pocket.

I scrolled past Mark’s contact, past his mother’s daily list of chores, down to an encrypted app hidden in a folder I hadn't opened in over a thousand days.

There was only one contact saved inside.

I tapped the name: *Butler Harris.*

The dial tone rang once.

A gravelly, impeccably polite voice answered immediately, trembling with suppressed emotion.

"Miss Chloe? Is that truly you?"

I looked at the closed bedroom door upstairs, my voice calm, hard, and devoid of warmth.

"Harris," I said quietly. "My three-year test of living as an ordinary person is over. Send the car to the Morrison villa. And prepare the papers to freeze every credit line under Mark's company by sunrise."