Mafia's Runaway Wife Turned Enemy

I scowled at Sasha’s smug comment about cleaning the sheets. The audacity of her mocking tone made my hands itch to slap her, but I stopped myself. She wasn’t worth it. Instead, I spun around and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

I yanked my suitcase out of the closet, tossing it onto the bed. Clothes, shoes, and whatever I could grab landed inside, one item after another. My chest burned with anger, each piece of clothing stuffed inside feeling like another step closer to freedom.

The door creaked open behind me.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jameson asked.

“Leaving,” I said shortly, not bothering to turn around.

“Leaving? Over what? Because Sasha made a joke?”

I zipped the suitcase halfway. “Because I’m done with this. With you.”

Jameson stepped closer. “You’re being ridiculous. Do you even know what Sasha’s been through? Her whole family was murdered, Kat. She has no one else, and here you are, acting like a spoiled brat instead of showing some compassion.”

I turned, glaring at him. “Compassion? She’s flaunting your affair in my house, mocking me at every turn. And you’re defending her?”

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “You’re overreacting. She’s trying to get through a tough time, and you’re making it harder for her.”

I stared at him, disbelief cutting deeper than any words. “You’ll defend her no matter what, won’t you? Even when she’s wrong.”

“She’s not wrong,” he shot back. “You are.”

My fists clenched. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Grow up, Kat,” he said coldly before turning and walking out, slamming the door behind him.

The next day, Jameson was stretched out on the couch, scrolling on his phone. I walked past him toward the kitchen, catching a glimpse of the screen.

“Can’t wait to see you tonight,” Sasha’s text read, complete with a winking emoji.

Jameson chuckled, his thumbs moving quickly as he typed back a response.

My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to breathe. If this was how he wanted to play, fine. I could play too.

I grabbed a stack of papers I had prepared earlier and approached him. “Jameson, I need your signature on these,” I said, holding out the documents.

He barely glanced up. “What’s this?”

“Business,” I said smoothly. “Just something to finalize a deal.”

With a sigh, he grabbed the pen I offered. “You always pick the worst times for this.”

I kept my expression neutral as he scribbled his signature on each page without reading a single line—not even knowing it was the divorce papers. When he handed the papers back, I forced a small smile. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, already back to texting Sasha.

I walked to the bedroom, my heart pounding as I tucked the signed divorce papers into my suitcase.

By noon, I was sitting in the agency office, finalizing my plan.

“We’ll make it look like a drowning,” the agent said, sliding a photo across the table. The dummy corpse looked eerily like me, floating face-down in dark water. “This should be convincing enough.”

I nodded, keeping my voice steady. “Make sure the rumors point back to him. I want people to think Jameson did it.”

The agent raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” I said firmly.

Once the arrangements were made, I created a fake social media account. Using the photo of the dummy corpse, I typed out the caption: Jameson Cross and Sasha Gray killed Katerina Cross.

Before posting, I sent the image directly to Jameson’s phone with no caption, knowing it would catch him off guard. I imagined the confusion on his face, the panic that would follow as he pieced it together.

Then, with one final deep breath, I hit “post.”

The image spread like wildfire. Within minutes, the account had hundreds of views and comments. Messages flooded in, accusing Jameson and Sasha of being a monster, some even calling for justice. The sight of it going viral filled me with a twisted sense of relief.

Satisfied, I closed the account and deleted any trace of it from my phone.

I arrived at the airport a couple of hours later, my new identity papers tucked safely in my bag. My ticket was one-way, and from this moment on, Katerina Cross no longer existed.

But then, three men in dark suits stepped in front of me, blocking my path, before I could approach the boarding gate.

“Miss Smith,” they said in unison. “You have to come with us.”