Mafia Princess: Escaping His Deadly Lie

Katerina POV:

Back at our house-a place that no longer felt like mine-Julian bustled around the kitchen, making an elaborate show of preparing my favorite seafood chowder, a meal he knew I would never eat. From the corner of his eye, he watched me where I sat, curled on the living room sofa. A ghost in my own home.

My phone buzzed. A friend request.

Ava Campbell.

I accepted.

Immediately, a deluge of images flooded my screen-a life I never knew existed. Photos of a newborn Sofia, swaddled in a pink blanket. Sofia blowing out candles on her first birthday cake. Sofia on her first day of preschool, holding Julian's hand. A gallery of his secret family, delivered directly to me.

Then came the texts.

He says you're boring in bed. Always were.

Sofia is his. Not yours. You're the third wheel, Katerina.

He only stays with you for the Volkov name. Without it, you're nothing.

But the final blow wasn't a text. It was a video. From the penthouse. Ava, wearing my birthday necklace, laughing as Julian kissed her neck. The text below it was graphic, describing in lurid detail what they did in my parents' bed.

I made sure the camera was angled just right. I wanted you to see.

A raw gasp tore from my throat. My body felt like a fragile, brittle thing, but my will was iron. I refused to give her the satisfaction of my collapse. I would not break.

Julian's phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, his face softening into a look I hadn't seen in years. "Urgent business," he said, already heading for the door. "I have to go. I'll be back as soon as I can."

He was gone before I could even respond.

My phone buzzed again. It was Ava.

His urgent business is me. I bought some new lingerie. He's on his way to see it.

A tremor of pure, unadulterated rage shot through me. My stomach churned, and the phantom smell of seafood chowder rose in my throat, thick and nauseating. I couldn't eat. I wouldn't eat his food.

Julian didn't come home that night.

The silence he left behind was louder than any argument. I sat on the sofa as hours bled one into the next, watching the city lights smear into a watery blur. The rage didn't cool; it hardened, settling deep in my bones like permafrost. By the time the first gray light of dawn crept into the room, my decision was as cold and clear as the morning itself.

The next morning, I walked into the kitchen. The chowder he'd so carefully prepared was still on the counter, cold and congealed. I scraped every last bit of it into the trash can. Then, I emptied the refrigerator, item by item. I purged the pantry, box by box, until the kitchen was bare.

I don't eat leftovers.

I would erase myself from his life so completely, it would be as if I had never existed at all.