Twenty Years, One Mistake

"You used to leave work at the office, no matter how busy things got," I said lightly.

Domenico's fingers froze over the screen.

For a split second, guilt flashed across his face before he quickly masked it with a smile.

"Things have just been hectic lately, babe," he said. "It'll settle down soon, I promise."

Then he softened his voice.

"Go get some rest, okay?"

As I walked past him toward the bedroom, my eyes drifted briefly to his phone.

A crying-face emoji filled the screen.

A message from another woman.

Another lie.

But I said nothing.

I simply returned to the bedroom and sat quietly on the edge of the bed.

After a moment, I picked up my phone and logged into a burner account.

Moving through the endless web of wives, girlfriends, and Family associates, I searched until I found exactly what I was looking for.

Ginevra Santoro.

A barely-known actress.

A nightclub singer with no Family connections and no real influence.

Two hours earlier, she had uploaded a new post.

In the photo, she proudly displayed a pair of unreleased heels from Maison Seraphine.

The very same brand Domenico had handed over to me tonight.

The brand that carried my name.

The comments underneath were ruthless.

People mocked her, accusing her of wearing cheap counterfeits and pretending to live a lifestyle she couldn't afford.

In response, Ginevra insisted that she was actually the brand's soon-to-be-announced spokesperson.

According to her, her boyfriend had personally secured the endorsement deal.

The contract was already finalized.

Even the heels she was wearing had been gifted by the fashion house itself.

Nobody believed her.

After all, it wasn't unusual for someone in her position to purchase replicas.

But Ginevra stubbornly argued with every critic.

I scrolled through the comments one by one until a newly created account caught my attention.

The account claimed to work for Maison Seraphine.

> I know her boyfriend. He's one of the people making decisions. He personally approved her as the face of the brand. The photoshoot starts tomorrow.

Almost immediately, skeptical replies flooded in.

> She's barely an up-and-coming actress. What kind of boyfriend could pull that off?

> What does she think she is? The next Serafina Moretti?

> Nice try. Creating a fake account to defend yourself is pathetic.

> If there isn't a photoshoot tomorrow, prepare to embarrass yourself.

> And good luck explaining how you leaked unreleased designs.

Less than a minute later, the account posted a photograph.

A signed endorsement contract.

Then came another comment.

> You'll see for yourselves tomorrow.

I stared at the screen for a long time before finally locking my phone.

A dull ache pulsed behind my eyes.

I pressed my fingers against my temples and slowly stood.

As I walked toward the bathroom, a familiar voice drifted through the partially open study door.

The study was lined with expensive books nobody ever read and framed photographs of dead men nobody ever mentioned.

Domenico sounded furious.

"What is the photoshoot team doing?"

"If they can't handle something this simple, replace them."

"I told you to prioritize the shoot."

"Do I need to repeat myself?"

"Drop everything else."

"And if those materials aren't ready by tomorrow, none of you are coming back. Is that clear?"

I closed my eyes.

The owner of the account defending Ginevra online...

Was my husband.

In that moment, it felt as though every ounce of strength had been drained from my body.

I leaned against the wall.

Silent tears slipped down my cheeks.

One after another.

When Domenico noticed me standing there, I was still trembling.

Still desperately trying to hold myself together.

The color instantly drained from his face.

He rushed toward me, panic flooding his expression.

Without even stopping to put on shoes, he scooped me into his arms as if he were preparing to carry me straight to the emergency room.

I steadied myself against the doorframe and shook my head.

"It... it's okay."

My voice cracked.

"I just read something sad."

"A novel."

"I got emotional."

"Don't worry about me."

"You should finish your work."

His expression softened immediately.

Pressing his forehead against mine, he rubbed his nose gently against my cheek.

"Then stop reading sad stories."

"Haven't I told you before?"

"I want to make you the happiest woman in the world."

He smiled.

"Those heartbreaks in novels aren't real."

"Our happiness is."

Not real?

Then why did it hurt so much just to breathe?

Perhaps seeing me upset made him feel closer to me.

Or perhaps it simply eased his guilt.

Either way, his phone wouldn't stop vibrating.

Message after message.

Call after call.

The constant buzzing filled the silence between us.

Eventually, he offered me an awkward smile.

"Just a little more work."

"I promise."

"I'm almost done."

I didn't answer.

Barefoot, I turned around and walked back to the bedroom alone.

By midnight, I heard the front door close.

A quiet sound.

But loud enough to shatter whatever hope remained.

He had broken his promise again.

Leaving the estate under the cover of darkness.

Past the wrought-iron gates.

Past the guards stationed at the checkpoint, who undoubtedly recorded the time of his departure but would never dare ask where the Don was headed.

I didn't need to ask either.

I already knew.

Silently, I slipped on a black coat and followed him.

The night air was cold.

The compound was eerily quiet.

Long shadows stretched across the gravel roads beneath the security lights.

Somewhere beyond the walls, a dog barked once before falling silent.

After several minutes, Domenico finally stopped.

In front of an apartment building.

A residence located within Moretti territory.

Close enough to reach at a moment's notice.

Far enough to pretend it was separate.

I watched from the darkness as he rang the doorbell.

Moments later, the door opened.

Ginevra Santoro stood there.

She wore a skin-tight black bodysuit that left almost nothing to the imagination.

A dazzling smile spread across her face the instant she saw him.

Then she stepped forward.

One hand pressed against my husband's chest.

Her body nearly touching his.

"Thank you for speaking up for me, Mr. Moretti."

Her voice was sweet.

Playful.

Dangerously intimate.

"I owed you a favor."

"So I prepared a little gift for you."

She tilted her head and smiled knowingly.

"But..."

"You'll have to unwrap it yourself."