When the Roses Died, The Mafia Heiress Demands A Divorce

Kaye’s POV

“Why can’t I go out alone?” My voice was a shaky whisper, hands clenched into fists. But it didn’t matter; the answer would always be the same.

“Because the world isn’t safe, Kaye,” my father replied, his tone firm. Lorenzo De Luca’s word was law. “Do you think I’d risk my only daughter?”

I swallowed hard, feeling the sharpness of his words sink in. Inside, I wanted to believe it was all out of love. But it just felt like a cage—a cage with soft, fancy walls and shiny bars. No one could reach me, but I still felt stuck.

Days blended together like shadows fading at sunset. I had freedom in the mansion—fancy dinners, beautiful dresses, and a bedroom larger than most people’s homes—but it all felt so safe that it was suffocating somehow. Whenever I stepped outside the gate, one of Father’s guards was there, a quiet shadow standing in my way.

Once, I’d tried to run. A childish attempt, no doubt, sneaking out through the kitchen door, thinking I could blend in with the night. But they’d caught me before I’d even made it past the driveway. And I remember my father’s fury that day, his voice like thunder echoing in the empty hallway.

“If anything happened to you,” he’d seethed, grabbing my shoulders, “I’d burn this entire city down. Don’t you understand, Kaye? You’re a De Luca. That blood alone puts a target on your back.”

Weak. That was what I was. And that knowledge hit harder than his warning. I felt weak because my whole life had been about survival on his terms, hidden behind his power, like I was too fragile to handle the real world.

And because of that he forced me to train, to learn combats because one day who knows what troubles will bring us. As an only child and my mother died, father had been always protective.

I spent my nights in that golden prison, sometimes breaking down in tears when the loneliness got too heavy. No friends to confide in, no world beyond these walls. And for the longest time, I believed that was all I’d ever have.

But then came Cyrus Cross.

I first saw him at a party—a formal event my father hosted for his associates. The air was thick with tension, faces painted with feigned politeness. He was there, leaning against the bar, a smug grin cutting across his face as if he knew exactly who he was in a room full of powerful men.

The moment our eyes met, his confidence sparked something in me. He strolled over, casual yet calculated. “You must be Kaye De Luca,” he said, his gaze sharp, intense, almost as if he could see right through the carefully crafted walls my father had built around me.

“Yes,” I murmured, barely meeting his gaze, but something about him pulled me in.

He held out his hand, and as I shook it, he chuckled softly. “Don’t look so scared. I don’t bite.” He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Not unless I have to.”

I didn’t know it then, but roses would soon become a part of us. Each time we met after that night, Cyrus would bring me roses—blood-red, lush, and fragrant.

“For you,” he’d say with that same confident smile. At first, I thought it was just a gesture. But soon, those roses became a symbol, a reminder of what he was—charming, vibrant, someone who breathed life into my world. Roses became my favorite; I cherished every petal, each delicate bloom, as if they held our future.

My cheeks flushed, a mix of fear and intrigue twisting inside me. Cyrus had this magnetism that was hard to ignore, something that wasn’t about power, but about knowing how to wield it.

He was everything I wasn’t—fearless, assertive, as if he owned every room he stepped into. We started talking, and soon enough, he became the one I could lean on.

Cyrus was a mafia, one of my father’s associates. But he saw the cracks in me no one else did.

“You don’t have to be that girl they think you are, you know,” he’d say when I’d confide in him. His voice would soften in those rare moments, slipping through my defenses. “You’re stronger than you think.”

I’d laugh it off, convinced he was only being kind. But every time he looked at me, there was something in his eyes—a silent promise that maybe, just maybe, he’d be the one to show me a world beyond my father’s walls.

One night, after another argument with my father, I found myself outside, on the edge of the patio, fighting tears. Cyrus joined me, lighting a cigarette as he leaned against the railing.

“You really think this is what life is?” he asked, his voice low, filled with something raw and dark.

“It’s all I know,” I whispered back, swallowing the hurt.

He exhaled smoke, a small, twisted smile tugging at his lips. “Then maybe it’s time you knew more.”