Chapter 1

After Marco Ferrante and I remarried, a joke began circulating through Sicilian high society — one dripping with irony: rather than praying to God for good fortune, you'd be better off making a wish to Sofia.

They called me the greediest woman the Ferrante family had ever taken as a wife.

The day after our remarriage, I took my seat at the far end of the long dining table. With Marco and several family elders looking on, I calmly announced a new rule.

"Starting today," I said — my voice unhurried, my tone light, yet leaving no room for negotiation — "anyone in this household who says the name 'Chiara' in my presence owes me one hundred thousand."

……

The dining room fell into brief silence.

Marco frowned, a barely concealed impatience flickering behind his eyes.

"Sofia, what are you doing? Why are you targeting Chiara?"

"Setting a boundary."

Seated to his right, Chiara Moretti offered a faint smile, her posture impeccable — the very picture of a woman who had already decided she belonged here.

"Marco, don't be upset. If it makes Sofia uncomfortable, I can simply come around less."

I lifted my gaze and looked at her, perfectly calm.

"One hundred thousand."

The air turned cold in an instant.

Marco's expression darkened.

"Enough."

"You just said her name." My voice was flat. "The rule is clear."

Marco stared at me for several seconds before finally reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a checkbook, signed a check with a deliberate flourish of sarcasm, and slid it across the table.

"Satisfied?"

I glanced down at the amount, folded the check neatly, and tucked it into my purse.

I never said I wasn't.

Luca spoke up suddenly from beside Marco, his young voice raw with barely concealed fury.

"Greedy Eastern European. All you ever do is bully Aunt Chiara."

"When everyone picked on me, she was the only one who ever comforted me. What gives you the right to ban her name?"

I looked at him.

"How did they pick on you?"

Luca clenched his jaw, though his eyes darted instinctively toward Marco.

"They said a real Ferrante heir wouldn't carry the Eastern European stench. They called me a half-breed. Said the Volkov blood on me was disgusting."

The tension at the table ratcheted up another notch.

Marco cut in, his voice low and firm: "Children say things without thinking."

He didn't bother explaining that the mixed bloodline actually gave Luca advantages far beyond his peers. And I — I no longer wanted to explain either. Nobody trusted me. Not even my own child. They only ever listened to Chiara.

I raised my hand toward Marco once more, palm up.

"One hundred thousand."

His gaze turned ice-cold.

"Sofia."

"He said her name." I looked at Luca. "The rule applies to everyone."

Luca stared at me in disbelief, as though seeing a stranger.

"Is there anything in your eyes besides money?"

"It was a condition of my remarriage," I answered quietly. "It's in the contract."

Marco drew a deep breath, wrote another check — this time doubling the amount — and pressed it flat against the table.

"Take it," he said. "Since you need it so badly."

I picked up the check, unhurried and composed.

No one knew that I truly did need it.

The supply of that controlled medication through the black market could be cut off at any moment, and the black market only accepted cash.

I had to stockpile enough doses before I left with my mother for good.

Chiara rose to her feet, her tone soft yet laden with implication.

"Marco, let's not make Sofia too uncomfortable. She's always been sensitive about these things."

I said nothing.

But Marco suddenly spoke, his voice carrying a deliberate veneer of calm.

"Chiara, you don't need to worry about her."

I looked up at him.

"One hundred thousand."

This time, he didn't reach for the pen right away.

Every pair of eyes at the table was on me.

"Are you sure you want to keep this up?" he asked.

"I'm simply enforcing the rule."

A few seconds later, he signed a third check.

The crisp sound of paper hitting the table was sharp and final.

After dinner, I returned to the living room. My phone buzzed.

An anonymous message appeared on the screen.

[Intimate footage of the Don and Miss Chiara. Contact us if you'd prefer it didn't leak.]

Several photographs followed.

In the darkness, Marco's hand rested on Chiara's waist. The closeness between them left nothing to the imagination.

I didn't reply. I blocked the number immediately.

An hour later, the footage had spread across every major platform and shot to the top of the trending charts.

When Marco came home, his face was thunderous.

"You had someone leak that, didn't you?"

"No." I shrugged. "The reporter didn't get paid, so naturally they sold it to someone else."

He closed the distance between us, his eyes glacial.

"Is there anyone in this world who loves money more than you?"

I met his gaze.

"Then why did you remarry me?"

He fell silent.

I already knew the answer. It was his little game with Chiara — each of them waiting for the other to break first, to be the one to say they wanted back together.

And I was nothing but a pawn in their contest.

Whether it was the marriage or the divorce.

Luca suddenly rushed forward and planted himself in front of Marco.

"Bad mother. I won't let you bully Dad."

He dug a bank card out of his pocket and threw it at me.

"Two hundred thousand," he declared. "Now stop pressuring him."

I bent down and picked up the card, running my thumb along its edge. My voice was even.

"He didn't say the name."

Marco frowned.

"What do you mean?"

I looked up at him.

"The rule is clear. You only pay when someone says her name. Just now, he didn't."

The air stood perfectly still for one beat.

I set the bank card back on the table.

"I'm not taking this one."

Luca froze.

For the first time, something like hesitation crossed Marco's face.

I turned and walked toward the staircase.

In this house, I had never dared hope for love.

All I needed was time.

Time, and enough cash.

Once I took my mother and left, they could say Chiara's name as much as they damn well pleased.