Jilted By The Heir, Married The Don

ella

t of the private elevator at the top floor of the Moretti Holdings Tower. I wore a tailored, blood-red sheath d

doors to the Lion's sky-high den, interrupting a mee

f Manhattan. The air was thick with the scent of expensive Cuban cigars and single-malt scotch. Around th

k angry at the intrusion. Instead, his slate-gray ey

k and placed a legal documen

d, my voice steady, carrying e

request earlier that morning. "Isabella," Atticus warned, his tone low. "This is a full proxy authorization. It gives you a

spending in Paris is a continuous insult to the Moretti name. You need him disciplined

on, any lingering affection for the boy who had left me at the altar. He found nothin

of the nib against the paper echoed in the quiet room as he signed

dry, the black phone on Da

ID, his smirk deepening. He

t. "Dad, you have to help me! The Ritz just declined my black card. The manager is threatening to thr

estured toward the phone, his eyes l

ogany desk. "It's not

voice trembling with a pathetic mix of shock and entitlement. "

devoid of any mercy. "As for your cards, your allowance,

do that! Yo

him off smoothly. "If you want to eat tonight, I

ning to this bitch?

his gaze burning into me with

longer permitted to address me by my first name. You will call me Mrs. Moretti. Or, perhaps, *Mother* is more f

d the button, cutting of

t. The Capos stared at me in stunned silence. I had just publ

djourned," he ordered softly. The men scrambled to leave, Atticus giv

gy. This felt more real than any vow we had spoken at the altar. We were no

e real test was yet to come. Tomorrow, I would have to face Adri