Owned by the Wrong Don

Morning sunlight cut through the curtains.

I reached for the other side of the bed. The sheets were still cold.

Lorenzo hadn't come home again.

I picked up my phone. My thumb opened Instagram out of a morbid, self-destructive habit.

Vanessa's latest post made my heart stop.

The first photo: She was in Lorenzo's office. Using my priceless, first-edition Bach manuscript—my most prized possession—as a coaster for her coffee cup.

Caption: "Guess this old sheet music is good for something."

I got that manuscript at an auction when I was sixteen.

Lorenzo knew what it meant to me. He kept it in the safest vault in his office.

Now his mistress was using it as a placemat.

I kept scrolling.

The second photo stole the air from my lungs.

Lorenzo and Vanessa, locked in a passionate kiss in a private pool, water splashing everywhere.

The background was our mountain villa. I knew it all too well.

Caption: "He says only I can give him this kind of thrill."

Lorenzo built that villa for me three years ago.

He said it was our place. That he'd never take anyone else there.

He promised the whole family that after the baby was born, he'd host a private concert for me there.

Everyone used to envy me for how much he cared.

Now, it was all hers.

My stomach twisted. I ran to the bathroom and dry-heaved.

"Elena?"

Lorenzo's voice came from downstairs.

I quickly deleted my browsing history, splashed water on my face, and went down.

He was at the dining table, eating breakfast. He smiled when he saw me.

"You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Fine." I sat down across from him.

"There's a big underground auction tonight," Lorenzo said, cutting his steak. "I want to take you. I have a surprise for you."

My wound still ached, but I couldn't let it show.

"Okay."

Lorenzo nodded, satisfied. "It's a date."

At seven p.m., we arrived at the auction.

It was the most exclusive gathering in New York's underworld. Every item was worth a fortune.

Lorenzo sat beside me and took my hand.

"First item up for bid," the auctioneer announced. "An 18th-century Italian crown, made for a master cellist. Bidding starts at five hundred thousand dollars."

Lorenzo immediately raised his paddle. "One million."

The room went silent for a beat.

"Going twice, sold!"

Lorenzo turned to me, his eyes shining. "Today is the fifteenth anniversary of the day we met, Elena."

I stared at him, stunned.

He still remembered things like that?

"Fifteen years ago today, you played Beethoven's 9th at Carnegie Hall," Lorenzo said softly. "I was in the front row. I fell in love with you at that exact moment."

A wave of complicated feelings washed over me.

Maybe he still loved me.

Maybe Vanessa was just a mistake.

The people around us were giving me that familiar, envious look. I could hear them whispering.

"Don Lorenzo is still so in love with his wife."

"Everyone knows Mrs. Moretti is a world-class cellist. Any family that appreciates the arts would admire her."

...

"Next item: a replica of Mozart's original manuscript…"

The spotlight hit the stage. A tall woman in a skin-tight red dress sauntered out, holding a beautiful display case.

It was Vanessa.

She smiled at the crowd, showing off the item.

I felt Lorenzo's body go rigid beside me.

His expression was stiff, his eyes darting away from the stage.

"Do you know her?" I asked, testing him.

Lorenzo nodded, trying to look casual. "She's a model from an agency I invested in. Just an employee."

He turned to me with a smirk. "What, is my wife getting jealous?"

Lorenzo leaned in close, whispering in my ear. "You're the most beautiful one here. You're the only one for me."

He kissed my ear, just like he had a thousand times before.

I looked at Vanessa on the stage.

Her eyes met ours, and her smile froze.

A flash of jealousy burned in her eyes.

"And now for the Mozart manuscript, bidding starts at—"

Just as Lorenzo was about to raise his paddle, the lights in the venue started to flicker.

A woman’s shrill scream cut through the air.

"AHHH—"

It was Vanessa.

Lorenzo was on his feet in a heartbeat. Pure instinct. He bolted toward the stage.

And he left me behind.