His Unwanted Wife The Genius Artist Returns

On our fifth anniversary, my husband slid a black velvet box across the table.

Inside wasn't a diamond ring, but a fountain pen.

"Sign the separation papers, Aurora," Ethan said. "Ilene is spiraling again. She needs to see we are over."

I was the wife of the Mafia Underboss, yet I was being discarded for the Family Ward.

Before I could answer, Ilene stormed into the restaurant.

She shrieked that I was still wearing his ring and threw a bowl of boiling lobster bisque directly at my chest.

As my skin blistered and peeled, Ethan didn't rush to me.

He hugged her.

"It's okay," he soothed the woman who had just assaulted me. "I've got you."

The betrayal didn't stop there.

When Ilene pushed me down the stairs days later, Ethan erased the security footage to protect her from the police.

When I was kidnapped by his enemies, I called his emergency line—the one meant for life-or-death situations.

He declined the call.

He was too busy holding Ilene's hand to save his wife.

That was the moment the chain broke.

As the kidnapper's van sped onto the highway, I didn't wait for a rescue that would never come.

I opened the door and jumped into the dark.

Everyone thought Aurora Bruce died on that pavement.

Two years later, Ethan stood outside a gallery in Paris, looking at the woman he had destroyed, finally realizing he had protected the wrong one.

Chapter 1

My husband slid the black velvet box across the crisp white tablecloth.

But instead of the diamond ring expected for a fifth anniversary, a black fountain pen rested inside, waiting for me to sign the separation papers that would save his mistress's life.

"Happy Anniversary, Aurora."

I stared at the pen.

The gold nib glinted under the chandelier lights of Le Bernardin.

Around us, the city's elite dined in hushed tones, unaware that the man sitting across from me was the Underboss of the Bruce Crime Family.

Ethan Bruce didn't look like a monster. He looked like a king.

His tuxedo fit his broad shoulders with military precision, concealing the gun holstered beneath his left arm. His eyes were the color of burnt whiskey-cold, detached, and utterly void of the love he'd once sworn.

"Sign it, Rory," he said.

His voice was low. It was the same tone he used when ordering a hit on a rival cartel member.

"Ilene is spiraling again. She threatened to open her wrists if she didn't see proof that we were over."

I didn't reach for the pen.

Instead, I looked at his hands.

Those large, capable hands that had promised to protect me at the altar were now pushing me into exile for the thirty-eighth time.

This was our twisted ritual.

Ilene Wolf, the Family Ward, would have a manic episode. She would demand my removal. And Ethan, bound by a twisted debt of honor to her dead father, would banish me to a safe house until she calmed down.

Thirty-eight times I had packed a bag.

Thirty-eight times I had played the obedient Mafia wife.

But tonight was our anniversary.

"Is she here?" I asked.