Unexpected Marriage Once Hated Twice Loved

Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

Gavin

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

Mafia Divorce Ex-wife Mafia Divorce Ex-wife

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SUSAN BROOKS' POV

Today was meant to be unforgettable.

I woke up early—too early. The sun had barely started to rise, casting soft golden streaks through my worn-out curtains. My limbs ached with exhaustion, but I pushed past it. I had something more important to focus on.

It was Jackson’s birthday.

The man I loved. The man who made me believe in forever.

Despite juggling late-night shifts and my stepmother’s endless chores, I stayed up to bake his favorite chocolate cake. I poured every ounce of affection into it, added strawberries and whipped cream the way he liked, and wrapped the small gifts I had been saving for months to buy. I gifted him a watch that he had once admired. His favorite cologne.

And a handwritten note that took me an hour to write because my fingers wouldn’t stop shaking:

To the man who makes my heart feel safe. Happy birthday, love.

I smiled, hugging the card to my chest.

Then I picked up my phone and called him.

No response.

I tried again.

Still nothing.

I frowned but stayed calm. Maybe he was still sleeping. Or maybe his phone died. I texted instead:

"Happy birthday, my dearest. Can I come see you today? I want to celebrate with you."

Ten minutes. No reply.

I stared at the screen until my chest felt tight. Something was wrong. I could feel it.

However, I refrained from hastily drawing conclusions. I refused to be the insecure girlfriend.

So I made a decision. I’d surprise him. After all, he loved surprises—especially mine. Right?

With the cake box in hand, I headed to his apartment. My heart fluttered with nervous anticipation. But when I knocked, there was no answer.

That’s when I noticed the door was… unlocked.

My smile faded.

“Jackson?” I called softly, stepping inside.

Silence.

Then my eyes caught something on the floor. A woman's dress and a pair of boxers were scattered like an afterthought. It was a woman's dress. The woman was wearing a pair of boxers. Then—my breath caught—

There was a red lace bra on display.

Matching panties.

My fingers clenched around the cake box until the edges caved. My heart pounded fiercely.

And then I heard it.

Moaning.

Soft, rhythmic. From upstairs.

I stood frozen. My soul already knew. But my body moved—slow, heavy steps toward the truth.

Each creaking stair felt like a scream in my ears.

I pushed open the bedroom door.

There they were.

Jackson Cornwell. Naked. He was entwined with a person who should never have crossed that boundary.

Chloe.