Chapter 1 - The Forgotten Wife

On our sixth anniversary, Alessandro gave me a dress—elegant, silk, perfect. I wore it, thinking, for once, I was meant to belong.

Then Mirella stormed in.

“How dare you wear that?!”

Riiip. The fabric tore under her hands.

Slap.

“This was my mother’s, you disgusting liar!”

The dress wasn’t mine—it was hers. The woman I could never replace.

As Mirella sneered, “Go find something else to wear,” I knew I had to leave.

But as I tried to escape, I was caught by Alessandro and thrown into an abandoned room. There, I found someone I never expected: Alessandro’s first wife.

She wasn’t dead, as I’d been told—she had been sedated for six years.

With her dying breath, she revealed the truth: Alessandro had stolen everything from her.

I helped her escape. Together, we rebuilt her empire, turning the underworld into her kingdom once again.

Three years later, we returned, ready to hunt Alessandro down. This time, I wasn’t just a pawn in his game. I was the queen of my own. And I wasn’t walking away again.

--

"How dare you wear that?!"

The venom in Mirella De Valdo’s voice cut through the air like a blade. My 13-year-old stepdaughter. Spoiled. Dangerous. Cruel.

I barely turned before she grabbed the fabric of my dress with both hands.

Riiiiip.

I exhaled sharply, stumbling back, my fingers clutching at what remained of the gown. "Mirella—"

But she wasn’t done.

Mirella ripped another piece, shoving me back with enough force that I nearly lost my balance.

“This was my mother’s, you disgusting liar!” she spat, her face twisted with rage. “You don’t get to wear this! You don’t get to touch anything that belongs to her!”

My chest tightened. Her mother. Alessandro's late wife. The woman I could never replace.

"Mirella, please—” I choked out, trying to keep my voice steady, but she was already ripping at the fabric again.

Another shred. Another piece destroyed.

She shoved me, hard, and I barely kept my footing.

"Do you think wearing this makes you special?" She laughed, but it was cold, sharp. "Do you think he sees you when he looks at you? God, you're so pathetic.”

Pain coiled in my chest. I’d spent six years trying. Six years waiting for a smile, for acknowledgment, for a single moment where I wasn’t just a ghost in my own marriage.

And now, standing there, with the dress Alessandro gave me in ruins at my feet, I realized something.

He never gave it to me because he wanted me to have it. He gave it to me because it didn’t matter.

I didn’t matter.

Mirella bent down, grabbed a torn piece, and threw it at my face.

“Go find something else to wear.”

And then she was gone, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. I stared at the fabric in my hands. My fingers trembled.

My voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m his wife.”

No one heard it. No one ever did.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, blinking back the sting in my eyes. Not this time. No more tears. No more begging. I kneeled, gathering the ruined pieces of the dress in my hands. Then my phone buzzed.

Alessandro. My husband.

For a second, I debated ignoring it. But I picked up.

“Where are you?” His voice was sharp, impatient. “The guests are waiting. Come down here!”

My stomach twisted. And yet, I kept my voice steady. “I’ll be down soon.”

I hung up before he could say anything else. Tonight was our 6th wedding anniversary, and yet I felt like a prisoner with an invisible collar.

I walked to the closet, yanking it open. Most of the dresses there weren’t even chosen by me—Morgana, my mother-in-law, had picked them all, making sure they were elegant yet forgettable. The kind of clothing meant for a woman who should never be seen.

I grabbed a white dress. Simple, sleek, floor-length.

The moment I stepped down the grand staircase, I felt them. Morgana and Mirella.

They stood near the entrance of the ballroom, champagne in hand, their smirks twin reflections of malice. They didn’t need to speak—I could see the mockery in their eyes.

"You’re pathetic."

"You should have stayed upstairs."

I didn’t look away. I didn’t falter.

If they wanted a reaction, they wouldn’t get it.

I owned my steps, each one deliberate, my dress whispering against the marble floors like a ghost that refused to fade.

The room was filled with Alessandro’s world—men in crisp suits, women dripping in diamonds. Powerful people who all knew my place in this house: the wife who didn’t matter.

I walked in, head high, back straight, every step a calculated defiance.

And then I saw him.

He was at the mini bar, his back turned to the party, a glass of whiskey in hand. He drank slowly, unaffected, as if this entire night was just another obligation to get through.

As if I didn’t exist.

Something in my chest tightened, but I pushed it down. I was used to this.

I approached, my reflection catching in the mirror behind the bar. My face was calm, unreadable. The same expression I wore in the operating room, where I cut people open and held their lives in my hands.

Because that’s who I was.

Not just his wife.

Not just the woman they humiliated for sport.

I was Dr. Raven Evergreen. One of the best heart surgeons in the country. I’d saved lives. I’d held a beating heart in my hands and kept it alive. I’d walked through blood and tragedy and come out untouched.

And yet, this man—my husband—had spent the last six years trying to break me.

I waited for him to look at me. Just once. Just long enough to acknowledge my presence.

He never did.

Instead, his eyes flickered with something close to amusement. And then—

“Ladies and gentlemen,” someone announced, “Alessandro and Bianca will have the first dance.”

The world shifted.

A slow, sinking feeling pooled in my stomach as I watched him extend a hand.

Not to me.

To her.

Bianca.

His long mistress. His favorite.

The golden-haired woman glided toward him, her lips painted a sinful red, her dress clinging to every curve. The room hummed with approval as he pulled her close, their bodies aligning in a way that made my skin burn.

The first dance. Our dance...

And just like that, he made his statement.

I was nothing.

The crowd watched with polite smiles, murmurs passing between them like a secret joke. No one looked at me. No one dared.

"Poor Raven, always in the back, never loved."

"She should’ve killed herself by now—would’ve saved her the humiliation."

"She looks like a maid in that dress."

"Did she really think he’d choose her?"

"How pathetic. Six years, and she still doesn’t get it."

"Bianca fits him so much better—class, beauty, power. Raven? She’s just... there."

Then—

Cold liquid splashed against my chest.

A sharp breath ripped from my throat as I stumbled back, the stem of my wine glass slipping through my fingers. Red spread across my white gown, blooming like a wound.

Laughter erupted.

I blinked, dazed, and found Mirella standing before me, her own glass still half-full, amusement twisting her delicate features. Mirella was Alessandro's daughter from his late wife, who died tragically.

“You look better in red,” she said sweetly. “Like blood.”

The laughter swelled.

I stood there, frozen, sticky wine dripping from my fingertips. Mirella—thirteen, cruel, and smirking before turning away, satisfied.

Alessandro never stopped dancing.

I didn’t remember leaving the ballroom. I didn’t remember how I got to my bedroom, only that my hands were trembling, my breaths sharp and shallow.

This was it, something inside me whispered. This was my breaking point.

I pulled out of the ruined gown, my reflection in the mirror barely recognizable. Not because of the wine. Not because of the humiliation.

But because I looked empty. A knock on my door. I didn’t answer. The door opened anyway.

I expected Morgana. Or Mirella, coming to rub salt in the wound. But it was neither.

It was her.

Bianca.

She stepped inside with a smug smile, her silhouette illuminated in the hallway. In her hands, she held something small and delicate. A necklace.

My necklace.

The one Alessandro gave me on our 1st wedding night.

I didn’t realize I’d moved until I was standing inches from her. “That belongs to me.”

She tilted her head. “Did it?”

My stomach churned. “Where did you get it?”

Her smile grew. “He gave it to me.”

A pause. A heartbeat of silence. Then, softly, she leaned in, her breath warm against my cheek.

“You were never his choice,” she whispered. “You were his obligation. But me? I’m his favorite. His love of his life. His obsession.”

The words carved into me, deeper than any wound.

But it wasn’t the words that destroyed me.

It was the truth in them.

Bianca stepped back, her amusement clear. And then, just before leaving, she dropped one last revelation:

“Oh, and Raven?” Her eyes gleamed. “You really should explore the mansion more. You’d be surprised how many rooms you’ve never even seen.”

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

My breaths were ragged, uneven. My nails dug into my palms, sharp enough to break skin.

There was a wing in this mansion I’d never been allowed in. A wing where Bianca had been living.

A mistress, under my own roof.

My vision blurred—not from tears, but from rage.

I’d spent six years trying to be his wife. Six years trying to earn a place in this house, in his world, in his heart.

Chapter 2 - The Caged Queen

"I wanted a divorce."

The words tasted foreign on my mouth, like something I was never meant to say aloud. They hung in the air, filling the massive office with a silence so heavy it pressed against my ribs.

Alessandro leaned back in his chair, the soft creak of leather the only response at first. Then—he laughed.

A deep, amused chuckle that made my skin crawl.

“You thought you could leave me, Raven?” He tilted his head, his dark eyes gleaming with something dangerous. “You’re mine. Whether you liked it or not.”

My fingers curled into fists at my sides. “I wasn’t your possession.”

He exhaled, as if I were a petulant child testing his patience. Then he rose, slow and deliberate, and rounded the desk. I refused to step back when he stopped in front of me, his presence suffocating.

“You’re forgetting something, wife.” His voice was a murmur, deceptively soft. “The life you had? I owned it. The clothes on your back, the food you ate, even the air you breathed under this roof—it was all because I allowed it.”

My nails dug into my palms. “You allowed it?” I repeated, my voice shaking with disbelief.

“Yes.” His hand came up, fingers brushing over my chin, tipping my face up to his. “And you would stay where I put you. Because if you tried to leave…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. The threat was already clear.

I wrenched my head away, disgust rising in my throat. “I’d find a way out of this,” I whispered.

Alessandro only smirked. “Go ahead and try.”

Morgana cornered me that evening, her eyes cold, her expression unreadable.

“You were making a mistake, dear,” she said, sipping her wine as she watched me from the doorway of my bedroom.

I didn’t respond.

She stepped closer, placing her glass down on the vanity with a soft clink. “You left, and we took everything from you.”

I finally looked at her. “You couldn’t take what was already broken.”

Morgana smiled, slow and sharp. “Oh, but we could.” She leaned in, her breath warm against my cheek. “Including your life.”

A chill slithered down my spine.

“You were only breathing,” she continued, “because my son let you.”

The room suddenly felt too small. Too cold.

I clenched my jaw. “If that was a threat, you’d have to try harder.”

Morgana chuckled, picking up her wine again. “Oh, sweetheart.” She sipped. “It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.”

And Morgana was right.

Two days later, my world burned.

It started with a phone call from the hospital.

“We’re sorry, Dr. Evergreen, but due to recent concerns regarding your medical history, the board had decided to suspend your license pending further investigation.”

My heart stopped. “What?”

The voice on the other end was detached. Professional. “A patient’s family had come forward with claims of malpractice on your part. There were reports stating you botched a surgery that resulted in a fatality.”

I gripped the phone tighter. “That was impossible. I’d never—”

“We had documents supporting these claims.”

Documents? What documents?

“Who filed this?” My voice was raspy.

A pause. Then—

“The report was leaked to the board anonymously.”

I already knew. I already knew.

Mirella.

The realization hit like a slap.

I rushed to my office, tearing through my desk, my drawers—my documents. My medical records, my license—gone.

A choked breath escaped me. She took them. She stole them.

Panic clawed at my chest. Without my license, I was nothing. No job. No reputation. No future.

And Alessandro knew it.

That night, he stood in my doorway, a glass of whiskey in one hand, looking completely at ease as I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor.

“You looked tired,” he mused. “Rough day?”

I didn’t answer.

He stepped inside, taking slow, lazy strides until he was standing right in front of me. “You wanted freedom,” he said, swirling his drink. “And now look at you. No career. No way out. No one to run to.”

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

He crouched down, placing his glass on my nightstand. “So I was offering you a deal.”

I finally lifted my gaze.

“Stay,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along my knee, “and I’d give you everything. Your license. Your career. Your life back.” His grip tightened, just enough to make me tense. “Leave, and you’d be nothing.”

I forced myself to speak. “You wouldn’t let me leave anyway.”

A slow smirk. “No. But I enjoyed watching you realize it.”

I shoved his hand away, standing so fast I nearly knocked over the glass. “Get out.”

He chuckled, standing with me. “I’d give you time to think about it.”

He left without another word.

I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t move.

I just sat in the dark, my mind unraveling.

Then, just before dawn, I heard it.

A soft, almost imperceptible scratching.

I frowned, pushing off the bed. The sound was coming from my closet. My heart pounded as I stepped forward, dread curling in my stomach. I reached for the handle, fingers trembling.

I opened the door. And I screamed.

Blood. Fur. Lifeless eyes staring back at me.

My Pipi. My dog.

Shot by an arrow, its tiny body crumpled in an unnatural way.

A note, tucked under its tiny collar, smeared with blood.

"The next to die will have two legs."

Chapter 3 - The Mistress’ Game

The earth was cold beneath my fingers.

I didn’t know how long I had been kneeling there, digging into the dirt with bare hands, but my nails were caked with mud and blood. My dog—my only companion in that house of monsters—lay wrapped in a silk scarf, buried under the old oak tree in the garden.

I pressed my forehead against the damp soil, swallowing my grief.

It wasn’t just about the dog. It never had been.

It was about me.

That house had been swallowing me whole for six years, piece by piece. They took my freedom. My career. My dignity. And now they had taken the last thing that was truly mine.

But not for much longer.

I wiped my hands on my ruined nightgown and turned back toward the mansion, my body aching from exhaustion. Every step felt heavier than the last.

I hadn’t expected to see anyone in the hallway that late at night.

But then I heard it—a scream. A high-pitched, agonized wail that echoed off the walls.

I froze. And then I saw her. Bianca.

She was crumpled on the marble floor, her body trembling, her silk nightdress torn, bruises blossoming across her arms and face. Blood stained the corner of her lip.

She looked up at me with wild, terrified eyes. “Please—please don’t hurt me anymore,” she sobbed.

My stomach dropped.

Oh, you sneaky little woman.

Doors slammed open. Heavy footsteps. And then—

Morgana.

Mirella.

They appeared at the top of the grand staircase like a pair of vultures drawn to the scent of carnage. Morgana’s eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction, while Mirella watched with a smug smirk, as if this was exactly what she had been waiting for.

Bianca sobbed louder, making sure they heard every word. “She—she attacked me!” she cried, pointing a trembling finger at me. “I tried to tell her I didn’t mean to fall in love with Alessandro, but she just—” She hiccupped on a sob. “She went insane! She clawed at me—she wanted to kill me!”

Morgana didn’t hesitate. She stormed forward and slapped me across the face so hard my vision blurred.

“You vile, jealous little disgusting woman,” she hissed. “How dare you lay a hand on her?”

Before I could even react, Mirella stepped closer, her face twisted in disgust. And then—she spat on me.

Mirella yanked my hair, moving my head back. “You just didn’t know when to give up, did you?” she sneered. “You were nothing here, stepmother. You’ve always been nothing.”

They shoved me back and forth between them like a plaything, a doll for their amusement. Morgana dug her nails into my arm, twisting my flesh, while Mirella’s laughter rang in my ears as she shoved me to the floor.

And then came Alessandro.

His presence alone silenced the room.

His eyes landed on Bianca first—his mistress, his favorite—and then on me. His expression shifted in an instant.

Rage. Deadly, seething rage.

“She—she attacked me,” Bianca wailed, crawling toward him on her knees. “I begged her to stop.”

And then she played her final card.

She lifted her tear-streaked face. “Alessandro… I’m pregnant.”

The hallway spun.

“With twins,” she whispered, her eyes flickering toward me. “I was going to tell you tonight, but Raven—she… she found out and snapped.”

I opened my mouth, but I never got the chance to speak.

Alessandro moved.

Fast.

His hand wrapped around my throat, slamming me back against the wall.

I exhaled sharply, fingers clawing at his wrist, but he didn’t ease up. His grip was bruising, crushing, possessive.

“You will stay away from Bianca,” he growled, his breath hot against my face. “She’s carrying my heirs now. My twins. She will be treated like a queen, and you will serve her like the worthless thing you are.”

I saw nothing but darkness around the edges of my vision. I had suffered through his neglect, his cold indifference, his quiet cruelty.

But this? This was new.

I forced out a weak, rasping laugh. “You really think I’d touch her? I wouldn’t dirty my hands.”

Alessandro tightened his grip, his eyes flashing. “I should kill you for what you did.”

Bianca whimpered from behind him. “No, please, I forgive her. I just—I just want her gone.”

I would have applauded her acting skills if I weren’t so close to blacking out.

Alessandro let go. I hit the floor hard, struggling for air.

“Lock her in her room,” he ordered his men. “Until I decide what to do with her.”

They grabbed me before I could regain my balance. As I was dragged away, I heard Bianca’s soft, triumphant whisper:

“I always win.”

But here’s the thing about me. I always planned ahead.

The lock on my door clicked into place. Heavy. Secure. Too bad they never noticed the tiny blade I’d had hidden in the hem of my robe.

It took minutes—maybe less—to pick the lock. I stepped out into the darkened hall, my heart pounding.

I’d been planning this escape for months. I had contacts. Resources. And most importantly—someone very interested in seeing me disappear.

The man who had sent me a plane ticket and a new identity. The same man linked to my father’s death.

I didn’t have time to think about what that meant. Right then, all that mattered was getting out of that house. And then— A voice.

Alessandro’s.

I pressed myself against the cold stone wall, listening.

“She’s finally breaking,” he murmured into his phone. “Give it a few more months, and I’ll get rid of her just like I did her father. His father’s assets and companies have already been transferred to my name, thanks to her cooperation in the marriage."

Everything stopped.

My breath. My pulse. The very air around me.

I… I had heard that wrong. Right?

I peeked around the corner. Alessandro stood there, phone to his ear, completely at ease. Completely unaware that his world was about to collapse.

“No loose ends,” he continued. “Make sure this one disappears cleanly, too.”

A cold, sharp clarity sliced through me.

He had murdered my father.

All these years, I had thought my father’s death was a tragedy. A mistake. An unsolved mystery lost in the abyss of the underworld. But it hadn’t been.

It was him.

It had always been him.

Alessandro had killed my father and forced me into this marriage to cover his tracks, taking every piece of my father’s empire for himself. My entire life—everything I thought I knew—it had all been a lie.

Something inside me snapped.

I turned, my breath uneven, my vision blurring with rage. I didn’t even realize I had started moving until I heard it.

"There she is!"

Shouts. Heavy boots pounding against marble.

I didn’t have time to think. I sprinted toward the staircase, my heart hammering, lungs burning. If I could just reach the lower floor—

SPLASH!

A wave of liquid crashed over me from above. Cold. Sharp-smelling. Sticky.

I barely got a burst out before the scent burned my nostrils. Gasoline.

I choked, my shoes skidding against the now-slick marble as the thick liquid clung to my clothes, my skin.

Laughter rang from above. Slow. Mocking.

I whipped my gaze upward. Mirella.

She stood at the railing, gripping an empty silver canister, her smirk widening as she watched me struggle to stay on my feet.

"Oops," she purred, tossing the canister aside. "Did I do that?"

Panic clawed up my spine. I pushed forward, slipping with every frantic step, my body drenched in the suffocating stench of gasoline.

"Run, little rat," Mirella taunted as she moved down the staircase, heels clicking, bow in hand. "Let’s make this fun."

I lunged toward the door—

WHOOSH!

A fiery streak cut through the air.

THUNK!

The arrow buried itself into the wall inches from my head, flames touching hungrily at the wooden frame. Heat scorched my cheek.

I froze. My breath caught.

Mirella tilted her head, another arrow already nocked, her fingers steady against the bowstring.

"You reek of fear," she murmured, dipping the tip of the arrow into the growing flames. The fire caught instantly.

Her smirk sharpened.

"Run again," she purred. "Let’s see if I miss this time."

My blood turned to ice.

I didn’t think. I just moved.

Slipping. Sliding. Running. My feet skidded against the gasoline-soaked marble as I clawed my way forward, lungs burning.

Behind me, Mirella giggled.

"Faster, stepmother. You’re running out of time."

Then she raised the arrow with flames and shot at my heart.