The Marriage That Ended My Ex-Husband

Lorenzo's POV

The silence was absolute.

Five hundred people in the ballroom, and not a single breath. The screen behind me was a fifty-foot tombstone, broadcasting my ruin in high definition. Embezzlement. Adultery. Fraud. My signature, bold and damning, was projected for the world to see.

I stared at the document, my mind reeling. The admission of guilt. The transfer of deed. The revocation of power of attorney. I had signed them. I had signed them this morning, thinking I was committing my wife to a psych ward.

She had played me.

"Mr. Marino."

The voice was quiet, firm. I turned. Miller, the head of security, stood at the edge of the stage. He wasn't looking at me with the deference he usually showed. His face was stone.

"You need to leave," he said.

"I..." My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, trying to summon the authority that had been mine five minutes ago. "This is a mistake. A hack. Alessandra is unwell. She—"

"Ms. Harrington has ordered your removal," Miller interrupted, stepping onto the stage. He didn't wait for me to argue. He grabbed my arm, his grip like a vice. "Now."

I looked at the front row. Ms. Harrington, the woman who had called me "son" at the last board meeting, was staring at me with pure, unadulterated disgust. Next to her, the other board members had turned their backs, a wall of black tuxedos shutting me out.

"Don't touch me!" I snarled, trying to jerk my arm free.

Miller didn't let go. He marched me toward the stairs.

"Bianca!" I shouted, scanning the crowd.

She was frozen in the front row, her face pale, her hands clutching her purse. She looked small. Pathetic. The mistress, who thought she had won the lottery, now realizing the ticket was a forgery.

"Grab her," Miller ordered his men.

Two guards flanked Bianca. She didn't fight. She let them pull her up, her eyes wide and vacant, fixed on the screen where her name was listed as a co-conspirator.

We were paraded through the center aisle. The whispers started then, a low hum that grew into a roar. Phones were out. Flashes popped like gunfire. I kept my head high, refusing to look at them, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. But inside, I was screaming.

How?

How had she done it? The meek, broken woman I had tormented for months. The woman who cried when I raised my voice. The woman I had drugged. She was supposed to be weak. She was supposed to be gone.

We reached the lobby. Miller shoved us through the doors and into the cool night air.

"Do not return," he said, blocking the entrance with his body. "The police have been notified."

The doors slid shut.

I stood on the sidewalk, the sounds of the city washing over me. Traffic. Sirens. The distant hum of a life that was continuing without me.

"Lorenzo?" Bianca’s voice was small, trembling. "What... what just happened?"

I didn't answer. I patted my pockets. Phone. Wallet. Keys.

"The car," I muttered. "Where is the car?"

I walked to the valet stand. The attendant, a kid I had tipped a hundred bucks last week, looked at me nervously.

"Mr. Marino," he stammered. "I... I can't give you the keys."

"What?" I snapped. "Give me my keys!"

"The lease was terminated, sir," he said, taking a step back. "Company policy. Immediate repossession upon termination of employment."

"I am the CEO!" I roared, slamming my hand on the podium.

"Not anymore," a voice said from behind me.

I spun around. A tow truck was already backing up to my sleek black sedan. The driver hopped out, hooking the chains to the bumper with efficient brutality.

"Hey!" I yelled, running toward him. "That’s my car!"

"Repo order," the driver grunted, not even looking at me. He winched the car up.

I watched as my status symbol, my pride, was dragged away into the night.

"Lorenzo," Bianca whimpered, tugging on my sleeve. "People are watching."

I looked around. A crowd had gathered. Passersby. Guests leaving early. And the paparazzi. They were like vultures, sensing the carrion.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

"Mr. Marino! Is it true you stole four million dollars?"

"Did you drug your wife?"

"Smile for the camera, scumbag!"

I shielded my eyes, backing away. There was nowhere to go. No car. No driver. No company credit card to hail a private ride.

"Walk," I ordered Bianca.

"Where?"

"Just walk!"

I grabbed her hand and pulled her down the street, away from the hotel, away from the cameras. The rain started then, a cold drizzle that quickly turned into a downpour. My tuxedo, custom-made in Italy, soaked through in seconds. Bianca’s heels clicked frantically on the pavement as she struggled to keep up.

We walked for blocks. My mind was racing, replaying every moment of the last week. The hospital. The "breakdown." The way she had looked at me when she handed me the clipboard.

“You’re saving my life.”

She had been mocking me. The whole time.

We reached the mansion. My sanctuary. The house she had bought, but I had ruled.

I marched up the driveway, ignoring the rain. I punched the code into the gate.

ERROR.

I punched it again. Harder.

ERROR.

"She changed the codes," I whispered.

I rattled the gate. It held firm. Through the iron bars, I could see the house. It was dark. Empty.

"Lorenzo, I'm cold," Bianca complained, shivering in her thin dress.

I ignored her. I climbed the gate. I didn't care about the suit. I didn't care about the dignity. I vaulted over the top and landed in the wet grass.

I ran to the front door. Locked. I ran to the back. Locked. I picked up a garden stone and smashed the window of the French doors. The glass shattered with a satisfying crash.

I climbed inside.

The house was silent. Too silent.

"Alessandra!" I screamed, my voice echoing in the high ceilings. "Alessandra, come out!"

No answer.

I ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I burst into the master bedroom.

Empty.

The bed was made. The closet doors were open.

I walked to the closet. Her clothes were gone. not all of them—just the ones that mattered. The practical ones. The ones she wore when she was working. The expensive gowns I had bought her to parade her around like a trophy were still there, hanging like ghosts.

I went to the safe. Open. Empty.

I went to the nightstand. The drawer where she kept her journals. Empty.

She hadn't just left. She had erased herself.

I sat on the edge of the bed—the bed where I had betrayed her a hundred times, the bed where I had planned her destruction.

A strange sound escaped my throat. A laugh? A sob? I didn't know.

I looked around the room. It was huge. Luxurious. And it felt like a prison.

I closed my eyes until Bianca shouted.

"Police! They’re coming!”