Dateless Love

I placed the divorce papers on the mahogany desk, ending five years of being the perfect, silent wife to the most ruthless Don in Chicago.

He didn't sign them. Instead, Kaden Barnes looked at me with cold, reptilian eyes and named his price for my freedom.

"Thirty lashes," he said. "The discipline of a traitor."

I accepted. I let his enforcer shred my back until I was dragging myself across the gravel driveway in a pool of my own crimson.

But as I crawled toward the exit, I heard him laughing with his mistress, Brittaney.

"Harlow isn't my wife," he sneered. "The certificate is a forgery. She owns nothing."

My loyalty had been a lie. And when Brittaney faked an injury to frame me, Kaden didn't check on my bleeding wounds.

He tied my wrists and ankles to the tow hitch of his SUV.

He drove forward until my hip popped and my shoulder dislocated, leaving me broken in the dirt while his mistress smiled.

He thought he had destroyed me. He didn't know his mother would smuggle me onto a private jet to London that very night.

Three years later, the Barnes empire collapsed. Kaden was rotting in a Supermax prison, betrayed by the very mistress he had tortured me to protect.

Now, a letter sits on my desk in Kensington.

The monster is dying of cancer, and he has left me his entire fortune.

I packed my bag for one last trip.

It was time to see if the King had finally learned that he threw away a diamond to chase after cheap glass.

Chapter 1

Harlow POV

I placed the signed divorce papers on the mahogany desk-the one Mrs. Barnes reserved specifically for "unruly guests"-and waited to see how she would retaliate.

My hands were steady, though my back screamed from the tension of holding myself upright for five years.

Mrs. Barnes didn't deign to look at the papers.

She looked at me with that cold, reptilian gaze that had kept the Chicago Outfit in check since her husband's death.

"You do not ask to leave the Barnes family, Harlow."

Her voice was a low hum, vibrating through the heavy silence of the drawing room.

It wasn't a question.

It was a verdict.

I took a step forward, the marble floor cold beneath my thin soles.

"I am not asking, Mrs. Barnes. I am collecting a receipt."

She finally blinked.

"My father took a bullet for your son," I continued, my voice devoid of the tremor rattling my ribcage.

"He died so Kaden could live to become the Don. That was the transaction. My life for his. But the contract is void."

Mrs. Barnes picked up her tea, the china clinking softly.

"You are the Don's wife," she said. "That is not a contract. That is a crown."

"It is a cage," I corrected her.

"And I am done being the canary he crushes whenever he's bored."

For five years, I had played the part.

The Ice Queen.

The stoic statue standing beside Kaden Barnes while he ruled the city with blood and iron.

I had laundered their money through my charity foundations.

I had smiled at galas while his mistresses whispered in the corners.

I had taken the contraceptive pills he forced down my throat because he wouldn't let "servant blood" mix with his noble lineage.

But the whispers weren't whispers anymore.

Brittaney Cortez was living in the East Wing.

She was walking the halls wearing the jewelry Kaden had bought with the family's clean money.

"The cousins are talking," I said, playing my only card.

"They say the Don cannot control his own house. They say he respects a stripper more than the daughter of the soldier who saved his life."

Mrs. Barnes set the cup down. Hard.

It cracked.

"Gossip is wind," she hissed.

"Disrespect is a storm," I countered. "And it is drowning this family. I want out."

Mrs. Barnes stood up, walking to the window that overlooked the sprawling estate.

She was calculating.

She didn't care about my happiness.

She cared about the optic.

A divorce was messy, but a weak Don was fatal.

"I will give you five million in offshore accounts," she said, not turning around.

"You will stay. You will endure. That is what women in this life do."

"I don't want your blood money. I want my name back."

She turned then, her eyes narrowing.

"Freedom has a price, Harlow. Name it."

"Thirty lashes."

The air left the room.

"Thirty lashes," she repeated, her voice devoid of emotion. "The discipline of a traitor."

"If you can take thirty lashes without screaming, without begging for mercy, I will grant you the divorce. You will leave with nothing but the clothes on your back."