Kicked Out by My Husband, I Married the Mafia Boss

POV: Chloe

The front door slammed open before seven in the morning.

"Jessica! My sweet girl!"

Susan rushed inside, laden with glossy shopping bags and gold-wrapped boxes of Korean red ginseng. She kicked the door shut with her heel and dropped her purse straight onto the entryway bench.

"Look at you, all grown up and back from Paris!" Susan cried, rushing directly toward the sofa.

Jessica sat curled up under a cashmere throw, dressed in one of Mark's oversized silk shirts. She rubbed her eyes and offered a fragile, sleepy pout. "Auntie Susan, you came so early. I told Mark not to bother you."

"Bother me? Nonsense!" Susan pressed both palms to Jessica's cheeks, beaming. "When Mark texted me that you were home, I couldn't sleep another wink. I brought bird's nest soup, royal jelly, everything to rebuild your energy."

I stepped out from the kitchen, holding a tray with a mug of steaming milk and toasted brioche.

Susan didn't glance in my direction until I drew close to the coffee table. The moment she noticed me, her smile hardened into a sour grimace.

"What is this slop?" Susan snapped.

"Mark asked for breakfast," I said evenly.

"Did anyone ask you to thrust your dirty hands into Jessica's space?" Susan raised her forearm and swung it hard against the edge of the tray.

The ceramic mug flipped over.

Boiling liquid splashed straight across the back of my right hand, splashing onto the floorboards. The heat scorched my skin instantly, turning the flesh angry and red. A sharp gasp tore from my throat as the mug shattered by my feet.

"Oh, stop the drama!" Susan barked, waving a hand in disgust. "You spilled it yourself. Don't play the victim in front of my guest."

Jessica gasped softly, pulling the blanket higher. "Auntie, please, don't be mad at her. It was just an accident."

Underneath the edge of the blanket, Jessica's eyes locked onto mine, her mouth twisting into a mocking smirk.

"Accident?" Susan sneered, stepping closer until her sharp fingernail hovered an inch from the bridge of my nose. "She did it on purpose out of spite! Look at you, Chloe. Three years. Three whole years you've clung to my son like a tick!"

"I made breakfast because your son demanded it," I replied, holding my burned hand against my apron.

"Don't talk back to me!" Susan shrieked. "You think you're clever? You're a barren hen! Three years under this roof and you haven't given Mark a single child. You don't earn a dime, you don't have a family name, and you spend every waking minute leeching off Mark's hard-earned money!"

"I manage this entire household," I said, meeting her venomous stare. "Every meal, every bill, every event Mark hosts for his partners."

"A hired maid could do that for peanuts!" Susan reached into her designer tote bag and yanked out a thick manila folder. She shoved it violently against my chest. "Take it. Read every single line."

The folder fell open in my hands. The bold title glared back at me: *Property Division and Separation Agreement.*

"What is this?"

"Your ticket out of our lives," Susan declared, crossing her arms with smug satisfaction. "You leave with nothing. Not the villa, not the car, not a single penny of Mark's assets. Jessica studied business in France. Her father owns real estate across three states. She has grace, status, and education. She is the kind of woman who belongs beside the CEO of Morrison Holdings."

"Auntie," Jessica murmured, resting a gentle hand over Susan’s wrist, feigning modesty. "Chloe is still Mark's wife. I don't want people thinking I broke up a home. Even if... well, even if she couldn't give him an heir, maybe she just needs more time."

Susan scoffed loudly. "Give her more time? To drain Mark dry? She grew up in an orphanage, Jessica! She doesn't know what breeding means. She should thank the heavens we let her play lady of the house for three years."

"Is that what you think?" I asked Susan, my tone dropping to an absolute chill.

"What's going on down here?"

Mark's voice cut through the room as he marched down the staircase. He wore grey sweatpants, his hair ruffled, his eyes narrow with annoyance.

"Mark!" Susan spun around, instantly transforming into an aggrieved mother. "I came over to welcome Jessica, and your ungrateful wife throws hot milk everywhere and attacks me!"

Mark reached the landing, glanced at the puddle on the floor, and scowled. He didn't look at my blistering hand. He didn't ask what happened.

Instead, he grabbed my shoulder and shoved me backward.

My spine hit the edge of the kitchen island, sending a dull ache through my ribs.

"Are you insane, Chloe?" Mark snarled. "You throw tantrums in front of my mother now?"

"She shoved the tray into me, Mark. Look at the floor. Look at my hand."

"I don't care about your hand!" he spat. "You've been picking fights since last night. You embarrassed Jessica, you insulted me, and now you disrespect my mother in her own son's home."

"Your mother brought divorce papers," I told him, pointing at the pages scattered over the marble island.

Mark didn't blink. He picked up the agreement, flipped through the first two pages, and tossed it back down.

"Good," he said, the word cold and flat. "She saved me the trouble of calling our lawyer."

Jessica looked down, hiding another smirk behind her manicured fingers.

"You want a divorce?" I asked him.

"Look at yourself, Chloe," Mark said, his lip curling in disgust. "My mother can't stand you. Jessica is back. What purpose do you serve here? You're stubborn, boring, and you act like taking care of this place is some monumental sacrifice. Our marriage was a mistake from day one."

"You swore vows three years ago."

"I took pity on you!" he raised his voice, stepping into my space. "You were starving in a drafty garret, painting portraits for spare change. I gave you luxury, clothes, and a life you could never afford. But you're right, I'm not a monster. Sign those papers, waive your claim to the estate, and I'll wire five thousand dollars to your checking account."

"Five thousand?" I repeated.

"Take it or leave it," Mark sneered, tapping the counter. "It's enough to pay two months of rent in some basement outside the city. It keeps you from begging on the sidewalk. Pack your suitcases and get out before noon."

"Five thousand dollars," I said again.

Then, I laughed.

It wasn't a bitter sob or a desperate squeak. It was a bright, genuine laugh that echoed off the high ceilings.

Susan blinked in shock. "Has she lost her mind?"

Mark's jaw tightened, irritation flashing across his features. "What are you laughing at? You think this is a joke?"

"No," I replied, standing straight and wiping the edge of my burned hand with a clean linen cloth. "I'm laughing at how cheap you are, Mark. Five thousand dollars for three years of my life."

"Sign the damn paper, Chloe!" he snapped.

"Keep your trash," I answered calmly.

I turned away from the kitchen and walked down the hallway toward the guest room.

Behind me, Susan squawked in indignation. "Look at that attitude! Mark, call security! Drag her out right now!"

"Let her grab her rags," Mark barked back. "She has twenty minutes."

I closed the guest room door behind me.

I didn't pack clothes. I didn't touch the designer coats Mark had bought to show off to his friends. I went straight to the small, locked leather case under the bed.

Inside sat my original identification documents, my trust deeds, and a crisp, white envelope bearing the seal of the city's most ruthless corporate litigation firm.

I pulled out the voluntary divorce agreement I had kept sealed for a thousand days.

It waived any claim to Mark's property or spousal support. Behind it sat a separate trust enforcement package for the sixty-million-dollar collateral facility that had secretly funded Morrison Holdings from its inception.

I uncapped my fountain pen, signed my real legal signature across the bottom line of the divorce agreement, and pulled the door open.

They wanted a clean break.

I was about to give them one that would burn their world to ashes.