The mobster and the writer

Aurelia Vance POV:

I had been married to Declan Hartford for three years.

Today was my twenty-fifth birthday, and I had flown back from Boston in secret, hoping for one quiet evening with my husband.

I'd spent a week carefully picking out a pair of gold cufflinks as a gift for my husband.

But the laughter spilling from the front door told me I was already too late: the woman who had taken my place at his side was already inside.

The heavy oak door swung open before I reached the porch. Three young players from the New York Titans, Declan's NHL franchise, stumbled out with crystal tumblers of scotch, laughing loudly. They barely glanced at me as they passed.

I stepped into the grand foyer. The heat hit me instantly,expensive champagne, roasted tenderloin, cigar smoke.

Dozens of people filled the double parlor: executives, scouts, wives in designer dresses.

In the center stood Declan, tall and broad in a bespoke charcoal suit. Beside him, laughing into his ear, was Sloane Whitfield, her backless silver dress catching the chandelier light. Her hand rested on his forearm like she belonged there.

Before I could take another breath, a blur of blonde hair darted past my elbow.

"Sloane!" Poppy Delacroix cried, throwing her arms around Sloane's slender waist. "You were completely right about the catering! This is literally the best victory party the team has ever had!"

Poppy is fourteen, a junior elite forward prospect.

I scouted her two years ago from a crumbling youth league, back when she was at her lowest.

Her parents had once shown me great kindness, and I knew they had already passed away, leaving her all alone in the world.

Declan and I adopted her together.

I rebuilt her shattered ankle with a custom rehabilitation plan.

I had always loved and cared for her as both a mother and a sister.

Now, she did not even glance in my direction.

Declan turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the crowd until his eyes locked onto mine. The easy grin on his sharp jaw vanished instantly. His brows drew together in a hard, irritated line.

He excused himself from Sloane, cutting through the throng of players with long, impatient strides.

"Aurelia," Declan said, stopping two feet in front of me. His voice carried zero warmth. "What are you doing here?"

My throat felt like sandpaper.

"I took the four o'clock flight from Boston," I whispered, clutching the strap of my bag until my knuckles turned white. "It is my birthday, Declan. I thought we could—"

"We are celebrating the division win," he cut in, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. "The board is here. The sponsors are here. Sloane spent four consecutive days coordinating this event so the organization could project stability."

He did not look at me. His gaze slid past my shoulder to the bar, like I was a waitress who had wandered into the wrong room.

"Don't cause a scene," he added quietly. "Go upstairs."