Chapter 1
+ 5 Points
Chapter 1
“Madam, you’ve miscarried.” The words hit me like a blow, as if the air around me suddenly thickened with the weight of those two syllables. “I’m sorry, but we couldn’t save the baby!”
Tears blurred my vision, my chest heaving as I struggled to breathe. My hands shook violently as I dialed Ryan’s number, my fingers barely able to keep the phone steady. The sobs that I had been choking back finally burst free, but I fought to keep them quiet, swallowing the ache in my throat.
Two calls. Then three. No answer. By the time I dialed again, my heart was already unraveling, but it wasn’t Ryan’s voice that greeted me.
Chapter 1
5 Points
“Ryan! Some ‘Helena‘ is calling for you!” A woman’s voice echoed through the phone, smug and dismissive.
“What is it?” Ryan’s voice came through, distant and cold, like an echo from a far–off place. The chill in his tone tightened my chest.
“I’m at the hospital. I fell-” My voice cracked as I tried to speak, but before I could finish, I heard him on the other end, speaking to her.
“Just hang up, already. She’s probably just throwing another tantrum.”
I staggered back, barely able to stand. This morning, while I was simply doing the housework, I had fallen down the stairs, hitting my head. When I woke, blood stained my clothes, and pain surged through my body, making everything feel wrong. And yet,
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there was Ryan, not a single thought spared for me. The man who had vowed to love and cherish me was with another woman, indifferent to the fact that I had stumbled home, my body trembling in pain.
Later that night, I lay on the couch, unable to keep any food down. The images of my dead child wrapped in blood tormented me. But as if to rub salt into the wound, I saw the lingerie–foreign, delicate, strewn carelessly in the laundry basket. Clothes meant for someone else. Someone Ryan was clearly sleeping with.
Our marriage, arranged by two mafia families, had never been one of love, but I had given myself to Ryan completely. I worked day and night to help him grow his empire, and I played the role of the dutiful housewife, hoping he would see me as more than just a pawn. Yet here I was, reduced to
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cleaning the clothes of his mistress.
I washed my face with cold water, wiping away the remnants of my tears. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw only one thing: the daughter of Mafia Boss Alexander Durand.
Helena Alexander Durand.
I dialed an unknown number. The phone picked up on the first ring.
“|
“I agree to be your woman, Nikolai Federico,” I said, my voice steady.
On the other end, there was a brief silence, then a low, approving chuckle.
“Welcome to Italian Omerta, Helena.”
In that moment, I knew what I had done. I
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had sold myself to the devil.
Just as I hung up, Ryan appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, looking tired and indifferent, like he expected me to drop everything and serve him dinner.
“Who was that?” His eyes narrowed, demanding an answer.
“Just someone,” I said, my tone flat, as I continued typing on my laptop.
Without responding to his glare, I sent the necessary documents: my marriage certificate to the Italian mafia, the divorce papers, and a request to prepare for my new marriage–one that would no longer include
him.
“Helena, dinner’s ready. Serve me.”
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I didn’t even look up. “It’s on the table. Serve yourself.”
The food on the table wasn’t homemade, just something I had ordered. Ryan stared at it, clearly unimpressed.
“I got a call from the hospital. They said you fell down the stairs. They sent over some medicine for you. You should take it.”
I didn’t bother looking up. “Alright, I muttered, my fingers still clicking away on the keyboard.
In the past, if something like this had happened, I would have erupted–crying, shouting, begging Ryan to see my pain, to understand how deeply it hurt. But now, I sat in silence, numb to the world around me.
Just last month, during a violent clash
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between the American and Italian mafia, I found myself caught in the crossfire. Three bullets embedded themselves in my arm, and I lost a dangerous amount of blood. The irony of it all still stung. Ryan, my husband, wasn’t there when I hovered between life and death. Instead, it was Nikolai Federico, the ruthless Italian Mafia boss, who carried me to safety.
That day, the doctor told me I was five months pregnant. The fall had caused my body to become too fragile to carry the baby any longer. The doctor said, if only I had been brought in earlier, just an hour, my child might still be alive.
As I stared blankly at the empty space in front of me, Ryan’s presence suddenly felt like an intrusion. He stood in the doorway, sensing something was off. But before he could speak, his phone buzzed, and the cold
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detachment in his voice made my heart ache.
“I’m going out for dinner. Since you didn’t make anything for me,” he said, his tone flat, dismissing me without a second thought. The door slammed behind him.
Hours passed, and I received a notification. on Instagram. The image posted by Catherine, Ryan’s personal assistant, caught my attention immediately. In the picture, Ryan stood with his arms around Catherine, both of them smiling like they were the perfect couple. The caption read:
*“He kneeled to apologize for being late and even spoiled me with my favorite wine. But I’m still mad at him.“*
The photo was taken at *our* favorite diner, the one by the ocean. I remembered how I
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had begged Ryan to sit with me at the open side, to enjoy the view together, but he had dismissed it as “childish.” Now, it seemed he had reserved the entire floor for Catherine.
I couldn’t stop the bitterness from creeping up inside me.
The next morning, a bouquet of fresh pink roses sat on the kitchen counter. The sight of them hit me like a punch to the gut. They were almost identical to the flowers I had received on our wedding day. As I reached out to touch them, the familiar sting of memory washed over me, only to be interrupted when Ryan’s hand grabbed the bouquet and yanked it away.
“Don’t touch them!” he barked, his voice laced with fury.
I froze, realizing these weren’t for me. They
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were for Catherine. A hollow smile spread across my lips as I turned to grab something from the counter.
“Before you leave, take this,” I said, handing him a small parcel. “I washed them for you.”
Ryan opened it and saw the lingerie inside. His face tightened with discomfort, but he didn’t say a word. Watching my blank expression, he seemed to struggle with himself.
“It was careless of Catherine, he muttered, trying to explain himself. “I’ll talk to her.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. When Ryan saw my silence, he sighed and added, “I’ll have a servant help you with your work today!”
The words barely registered. My heart had
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been trampled so many times that nothing could hurt it anymore.
In five years of marriage, I had been nothing more than his maid–a woman at his disposal for his every whim, to be used and discarded when convenient. But when it came to Catherine, he would bend over backward for her. He’d apologize, buy her gifts, even hire help to cater to her needs.
