Chapter 1

I tricked my mafia husband into signing our divorce papers—right in front of his mistress.

For eight years, I was the Maynard family's ghost. Decoding enemy intel. Forging untraceable documents. Keeping their heir alive from the shadows. Then one bloody night turned me into Orion Maynard's wife.

He called it a "strategic alliance." I was naive enough to call it destiny.

Destiny, it turns out, has a cruel sense of humor.

For four years, I warmed his bed, bled for his empire, and waited for a man who once pinned me against walls whispering, "You're mine, tesoro."

Then Sabrina Rossi waltzed back from Paris—and I stopped existing. The night he held me close, drunk and desperate, he moaned her name against my lips.

I finally understood: I was never his wife. Just a placeholder.

So I did what shadows do best.

I vanished on my own terms.

First, I let sunflowers swallow the crescent moon on my collarbone—a foolish tribute to his promise that I was his eternal light.

Then I tucked divorce papers between routine forms and handed him a pen.

He scrawled his name without a second glance.

Orion Maynard can keep his throne and his precious Sabrina.

But when the most dangerous man in New York realizes his ghost is gone for good, he'll learn something new:Some women don't come back.

……

Erasing the past satisfies people—but it always demands a price.

I sat in a dim tattoo parlor, gripping the armrests as the needle carved fire across my collarbone.

Four years ago, I'd inked this crescent moon onto my skin. A foolish tribute to a reckless young don who once whispered that I was his eternal light.

Be my moon forever—the only light I need.

And I believed him. Believed it so deeply I etched his promise into my flesh and surrendered myself to become the shadow behind his empire.

Now golden petals were swallowing it whole. Sunflowers devouring moonlight. I'd chosen them deliberately—flowers that chase the sun, that refuse to linger in darkness. If the moon was his, then the sun would be mine. A symbol of rebirth. Of finally turning toward my own light.

The artist offered me something to bite down on. I shook my head.

I needed this pain. Needed every searing stroke to remind me of the price of blind faith—the cost of trusting a promise that was never meant to be kept.

My nails dug into my palms instead. Each stroke burned deeper, but I kept my eyes on the mirror, watching the old design vanish line by line. My jaw ached from clenching. Sweat beaded along my hairline.

But I didn't make a sound.

When it was done, my collarbone pulsed with raw heat. The skin was angry and red, but beneath the fresh ink, that crescent moon was gone.

I didn't regret it.

That promise no longer lived on my body. And piece by piece, I was erasing Orion Maynard from my world.

My phone buzzed. The attorney's text glowed: Divorce papers finalized. Signature required.

I typed back: On schedule.

The Maynard compound was too quiet when I arrived. Security didn't bother with eye contact—within these walls, I ranked somewhere between furniture and hired help.

I headed straight for his private study. The mahogany door hung open an inch. Female laughter leaked through.

Then the scent hit me.

Orion hated strong fragrances in his private space. No perfume, nothing that lingered.He liked his territory clean. Controlled.

But tonight, something sweet and deliberate hung in the air. Feminine. Claiming.

I shouldered the door wide.

TMy stomach dropped.

Orion sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, radiating that dangerous calm that made powerful men nervous.

Sabrina Rossi was draped across the arm of his chair, one hand resting on his shoulder, manicured fingers toying with his collar. She leaned in close, her lips nearly brushing his jaw as she murmured something I couldn't hear. Orion's hand sat comfortably on her knee, thumb tracing idle patterns on her skin.

Like it belonged there.

Like this was routine.

She laughed—low and intimate—and Orion's lips curved into a half-smile as he reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face. The gesture was unhurried. Tender. Familiar.

The kind of tenderness I'd stopped hoping for years ago.

My stomach turned to ice.

His gaze found me. The softness vanished instantly.

"You're early." Flat. Dismissive.

Sabrina turned, burgundy lips stretching into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Helia! We were just going over some... sensitive family matters." Her fingers lingered on his collar, possessive. "I'm sure you understand how these things are."

I understood perfectly.

"I need a signature." I crossed the threshold, keeping my voice flat.

The folder landed on mahogany with a thud. Orion's bourbon paused midair.

"The hell is this?"

"Lab clearance form." I flipped to the signature line. "Emergency contact protocol. You insisted on being listed."

The lie came easy.

He reached for the papers. "Let me read—"

My pulse spiked. He never read anything.

Why now?

"Oh, Orion." Sabrina laughed, nails grazing his arm. "Since when do you read forms? Just sign it so she can run back to her little experiments."

Her little experiments. Eight years of building half his arsenal. Synthesizing untraceable compounds. Forging documents that fooled federal labs. And she called it little experiments.

Orion hesitated. Then grabbed his pen.

He didn't even look at the page. His eyes stayed on Sabrina as he signed—the same ruthless stroke that sealed death warrants.

I pulled the papers back before the header could betray me: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

Sabrina's smirk sharpened. "You know, Orion, sometimes I forget she's your wife. You two act more like... employer and staff."

Orion lifted his bourbon. Took a slow sip.

Said nothing.

The silence was its own answer.

I turned and walked out before they could see my jaw clench, before my composure cracked.

The door clicked shut behind me.

I was free.

My heels echoed down the marble corridor. The signed papers weighed nothing in my grip, yet this marriage had collapsed under its own gravity long ago.

I remembered when he was different. Orion's calloused palms mapping my spine in the dark, his breath hot against my neck. The way he'd corner me at family gatherings—one hand braced on the wall beside my head, the other tilting my chin up, his mouth finding mine like he was starving for it.

"You're mine, tesoro. Don't forget that."

Now his eyes passed over me like I was wallpaper.

I was sixteen when assassins killed my parents—collateral damage in a Maynard turf war. The old Don took me in. A debt repaid: my father had stopped a bullet meant for him.

I kept my distance for years. Stayed invisible. Until four years ago, when Orion staggered home splattered with someone else's blood and found me hunched over the kitchen sink, stitching my own wound—a gift from a Maynard soldier who figured the Don's charity case wouldn't fight back.

Orion didn't speak. He pried the needle from my shaking fingers and finished the sutures himself. His knuckles grazed my inner thigh as he worked, and my breath caught. His eyes lifted to mine—dark, unreadable—and held.

I should have pushed him away.

Instead, my fingers curled into his bloodstained shirt and pulled.

Three weeks later, we stood before a priest. Orion called it a strategic arrangement—protection for me, legitimacy for him. I swallowed the lie, believing I could make him love me.

Then Sabrina Rossi returned. And his late-night "emergencies" doubled overnight.

The Rossi shipping empire had bankrolled Maynard operations for three generations. Since crawling home from her failed Paris marriage, Sabrina had grafted herself onto Orion's life—charity galas, closed-door negotiations, every smoke-filled room where power shifted hands. Wherever the Don appeared, she materialized beside him.

Last month shattered everything. I'd waited six hours at Bellini's, watching our anniversary dinner grow cold. His underboss Michael finally appeared near midnight with a velvet box and rehearsed excuses. "Business ran long. The Don sends his regrets."

Next morning, I found the society photos: Orion and Sabrina at the philharmonic, her hand tucked inside his jacket where his shoulder holster usually sat. Both of them laughing.

That's when I started planning.

Now I stood in the gilded foyer, thumb tracing the embossed court seal. Fourteen days. Then this document would become my one-way ticket out.

Orion could keep his empire, his soldiers, and his precious Sabrina.

I was hunting something he'd never offered.

A life that belonged to me.