When the Roses Died, The Mafia Heiress Demands A Divorce

Kaye’s POV

“Come on, Kaye. Don’t you trust me?” Cyrus’s voice had that flattery edge, a mix of mischief and confidence that made it hard to say no.

I glanced over my shoulder at the mansion, then back at him, biting my lip. “If my father finds out…”

“He won’t. Not if we’re careful.” He smiled, offering his hand. “Let me show you the world outside these gates.”

For a moment, I hesitated. Lorenzo De Luca’s warning echoed in my mind. But something in me craved freedom, the thrill of slipping away from the shadows always watching me. Taking a deep breath, I reached out and placed my hand in his.

Cyrus grinned, pulling me along as we slipped past the guards, out into the city. My heart raced, both with fear and excitement. He took me to places I’d only heard of—clubs that buzzed with music, hidden lounges where people spoke in low voices and sipped expensive wine.

He showed me the side of life I’d only glimpsed through TV screens, a world where no one cared who my father was or what blood ran in my veins.

“Loosen up, Kaye,” he’d say, a playful grin tugging at his lips as he handed me a drink or twirled me around the dance floor. “You’re not the princess tonight.”

I laughed, letting the thrill of the moment wash over me. For once, I felt like I could breathe without looking over my shoulder, without feeling trapped by the weight of my family name. And Cyrus—he was my anchor in this new, electric world.

We began slipping out more often. Cyrus knew the city like the back of his hand, weaving through the alleys and crowded streets with practiced ease. He’d take me to places he claimed were the best-kept secrets, and for those brief nights, I felt like I was living someone else’s life. It was exhilarating. Dangerous. And I was hooked.

But secrets, as I’d soon learn, have a way of coming to light.

One evening, as I returned from one of our outings, the front doors of the De Luca mansion swung open before I could even reach them.

My father stood in the entrance, his face shadowed, arms crossed tightly. The expression on his face—half anger, half disappointment—made me freeze.

“Where have you been, Kaye?” His voice was low, deadly calm, yet every word hit like a bullet.

I swallowed, feeling the sting of his disapproval. “I… I was just with Cyrus.”

“With Cyrus.” His tone sharpened, the edge unmistakable. “And what, exactly, has this ‘Cyrus’ been showing you? Clubs? Bars?”

I winced, guilt twisting in my stomach. “It’s not like that, Dad… He just wanted me to see—”

“To see what?” His voice rose, steel-hard. “To see the parts of this city that could swallow you whole? Do you have any idea what you’ve risked by sneaking around with him?”

“He’s not dangerous, Dad! He’s…” My words faltered, as I saw his expression harden. “I just wanted to live a little. To see what’s out there.”

He shook his head slowly, a flicker of pain crossing his face. “You’re my daughter, Kaye. I have given you everything to keep you safe. But if you’re going to risk everything for this… man, even if he’s my associate, then maybe you don’t belong here.”

My eyes widened, disbelief flooding through me. “You’re… kicking me out?”

Silence. Cold, final silence.

I waited for him to change his mind, to pull me into a hug, tell me he’d forgive me. But he just stood there, watching, his gaze cold as steel.

“Pack your things,” he said quietly, turning away. “If you’re so eager to be free, then go live your life with Cyrus.”

“D-Dad! No!” However, before I could even protest, his men grabbed me and tossed me out of the gates.

I tried to crawl back. “Dad! Please!”

“You made your choice, Kaye.” He turned his back on me and never looked back.

I cried that day, begging and asking for forgiveness, but he had made up his mind. Eventually, Cyrus picked me up and brought me to his mansion.

His association with my father was cut off, and they became rival mafias ever since.

---

Moving in with Cyrus should have felt like freedom.

But within days, I realized the reality was different. The charming, attentive Cyrus who’d swept me out of my father’s mansion started to slip away, like a mask he’d grown tired of wearing.

He’d stay out late without a word, sometimes not even coming home till dawn, his shirt rumpled, lips red with lipstick that wasn’t mine. And every time I’d ask, he’d laugh it off, pressing a lazy kiss to my cheek and murmuring, “Don’t be so paranoid, sweetheart. You’re overthinking things.”

But the nights grew colder, and the silences longer. I felt the walls closing in on me, realizing that the man I thought would be my escape might’ve been my biggest mistake.

One evening, I returned home early, a nagging feeling twisting in my gut. As I walked up the steps to our floor, voices echoed down the hallway. I recognized his low murmur, but the other voice—a woman’s, soft—sent a chill through me.

I approached the door, pressing my ear against it. Laughter, sweet and familiar, filled the room. I pushed the door open, heart pounding, and there they were—Cyrus and Nicolette, curled up on our sofa, glasses of wine in hand.

“Cyrus?” My voice trembled, barely above a whisper.

He looked up, that smug smirk already forming. “Oh, hey, Kaye,” he drawled, completely unbothered. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

Nicolette laughed, twirling a lock of hair around her finger, like I was some clueless intruder crashing their private joke. My hands clenched, rage bubbling up.

“So, this is what you do?” My voice shook with anger, years of pent-up frustration finally breaking free. “You play me like I’m some fool?”

Cyrus shrugged, raising his glass. “It’s just business, sweetheart. If there was something more, you wouldn’t still be here. So relax.”

Something in me snapped. I felt a cold resolve settle in, a strength I hadn’t known I possessed. I stepped forward, taking off my ring, an object that we promised to each other before, placing it on the table between us.

“Keep your games, Cyrus,” I said, my voice steady.

Then I left him with his bitch.

As I walked away, my eyes fell on a vase by the window, filled with roses he’d once brought me.

I reached out, touching the dry petals and feeling them crumble under my fingers. My heart ached with a quiet realization—the roses, like us, were dead.

Cyrus followed, barely noticing the roses anymore.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Kaye?!” he shouted.

“Cyrus,” I called, my voice soft, even though he was seething with rage.

“What?”

I took a deep breath, my fingers still brushing over the withered petals. “I think it’s time,” I said firmly, “that we get a divorce.”