The Wife He Killed Returns To Destroy Him

I stood center stage in a wedding dress worth more than a small country, waiting for my final fitting.

For seven years, I had trained to be the perfect mafia wife for Ethan, the future Don.

Then the door slammed open.

Ethan's underboss walked in, hand on his gun, looking at me with zero respect.

"The wedding is off," he said.

"Ethan had an accident. He lost his memory. He doesn't remember the pact, and he doesn't remember you."

Desperate, I drove to his private villa to help him remember.

But I didn't find a confused patient.

I found Ethan lounging on a sofa with a model on his lap, his hand sliding up her thigh.

When he saw me, his eyes weren't blank; they were cold and annoyed.

He hadn't lost his memory. He just wanted to void the contract without a war.

To get rid of me, he ordered a hit.

My car was rammed off a cliff that night.

As I hung upside down in the wreckage, bleeding and broken, I heard his voice outside.

"Make it look like a drunk driving accident," he told his men.

"I don't want any loose ends."

He walked away, leaving me to die in the rain.

But he made one fatal mistake. He didn't check if my heart had stopped.

They buried an empty coffin, and Ava Miller officially died.

Two weeks later, a woman named Olivia Carter opened an investment firm across the street from his tower.

I remember everything, Ethan.

And I'm going to burn your empire to the ground.

Chapter 1

Ava POV

I stood center stage in the room, a statue wrapped in white, while seamstresses fluttered around me like nervous moths. They were pinning the hem of a wedding dress that cost more than a small country, their hands moving with reverent speed.

Then, the door slammed open, and my life shattered.

Leo, the underboss who was supposed to be my future husband's shadow, didn't look at the staff. He looked at me. His eyes, usually lowered in deference to a future Don's wife, were now devoid of respect. They held a weight-an insolence-that chilled me faster than the draft.

"Get them out," he ordered, his hand resting casually on the gun at his hip.

The seamstresses scrambled, a flurry of apologies and rustling fabric, leaving a trail of silver pins glistening on the Persian rug. I stood frozen, the heavy silk suddenly feeling less like a gown and more like a shroud against my skin.

"The wedding is off, Ava," Leo said. The words didn't just land; they detonated.

He continued, his voice flat. "Ethan had an accident. He doesn't remember the last seven years. He doesn't remember the family pact. And he certainly doesn't remember you."

My heart stopped. The cage I had lived in for twenty-two years had just lost its keeper, and I didn't know if that meant freedom or a death sentence.

Just hours ago, I had woken up in this mansion that felt more like a mausoleum. The silk sheets were an obscenely high thread count, the furniture was antique gold, and the air was always set to a bone-chilling sixty-eight degrees. I was the Miller family's offering to the Reeds. A peace treaty wrapped in lace.

For seven years, since I was fifteen, I had molded myself into the perfect mafia wife. I learned to be silent. I learned to look pretty. I learned that my loyalty to Ethan was the only thing that kept my father's territory from being swallowed whole.

I looked at Leo, searching for a crack in his stone face. "Take me to him."

"No."

"I am his fiancée," I said, my voice trembling but my chin held high. "It is my duty to help him remember."

Leo stepped closer, invading my personal space in a way he never would have dared yesterday. The shift in power was absolute.

"The Consigliere says it's a test," he sneered softly. "The doctors say you're a trigger. If you force this, you risk his recovery. You risk the family."

The Family. The word that was both a shield and a sword.

"So I am to do nothing?" I asked.

"You are to wait," Leo said. "Like a good Principessa."

He left me there, drowning in white silk.

The next three days were a blur of silence. I was a ghost in my own home. The elders, who usually lectured me on table settings and how to turn a blind eye to blood on a shirt, now avoided my gaze. I heard whispers in the hallways. The maids stopped talking the moment I entered a room.

He's not amnesiac, one whisper drifted through a cracked door. He's different.

I heard he was with someone, another replied.

I couldn't breathe. I tried to call Ethan's private line. Straight to voicemail. I tried to call his main office. Blocked. I was being quarantined.

Desperate for grounding, I went to the family library, where the smell of old paper and leather usually calmed me. I pulled down the book on family bylaws. Omertà. Loyalty. The sanctity of betrothal. None of it mentioned what to do when your betrothed decided you didn't exist.

I sat in the high-backed chair, tracing the gold lettering until my fingers ached. In the corner of the library, two soldiers were arguing in hushed tones, unaware of my presence.

"He was driving the Ferrari," one muttered. "Before the crash. He wasn't alone."

"Shut up," the other hissed. "The boss says he doesn't remember. So he doesn't remember."

"He remembers how to shoot. He remembers how to give orders. He just forgot the girl."

My blood ran cold.

I didn't think. I moved. I grabbed my keys, ignoring the protocol that required me to have an escort. I drove to Ethan's private villa on the outskirts of the city, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. The gates were manned, but the guards hesitated. They knew me. They feared who I was supposed to be.

"Open it," I commanded.

They opened it.

The villa was quiet. Too quiet. I walked through the front door, my heels clicking on the marble like a countdown.

"Ethan?" I called out.

I walked into the living room and stopped dead.

A woman was sitting on the leather sofa. She was holding a glass of Ethan's favorite scotch. She was wearing Ethan's white dress shirt, the top buttons undone, revealing skin that wasn't mine.

She looked up, her eyes cat-like and amused. "You must be the relic."

I felt the air leave my lungs. "Who are you?"

"Chloe," she said, taking a slow sip. "And you're trespassing."

"This is my fiancé's house."

"Is it?" She stood up, walking toward me. She smelled like expensive perfume and him. "Honey, you're so last season. He doesn't even know your name."

"Ava," a deep voice resonated from the stairs.

I looked up. Ethan stood there. He looked the same-the same sharp jawline, the same dark eyes that used to look at me with possessive heat. But now, they were flat. Cold. Like looking at a stranger wearing my lover's face.

"Ethan," I breathed, taking a step forward. "Leo said you were hurt. I had to see you."

He descended the stairs slowly, his hand brushing Chloe's waist as he passed her. He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away.

"You were told to stay away," Ethan said. His voice lacked any warmth; it was purely clinical.

"I'm your wife-to-be," I pleaded, searching his face for a flicker of recognition. "We have a pact. Our families..."

"I don't care about pacts I didn't sign," he interrupted, his tone bored. "I look at you, and I feel nothing. Just a headache."

Chloe laughed, a sharp, cruel sound. "See? Go home, Principessa. The King is busy."

"Ethan, please," I said, my dignity crumbling around my feet. "Seven years. You can't just wipe that away."

He looked at me with pure annoyance.

"Leo!" he shouted.

Leo appeared from the shadows of the hallway. He had been there the whole time.

"Take her back," Ethan ordered, turning his back on me. "And if she comes here again, treat her like an intruder."

"Ethan!" I screamed as Leo grabbed my arm.

He didn't turn around. He walked to the balcony, Chloe trailing behind him like a victorious shadow.

Leo dragged me out the door. I stumbled, my knees scraping the gravel of the driveway. I looked up at the balcony one last time.

Ethan was leaning against the railing. Chloe was pressed against his front, her hands tangling in his hair. He was kissing her. Not a tentative kiss. A hungry, devouring kiss. The kind he used to give me when he swore he would burn the world down for me.

Something inside me snapped. It wasn't a loud noise. It was a quiet, final fracture.

I didn't fight Leo as he shoved me into my car. I drove back to the gilded cage in silence.

I walked into my room and stood before the mirror. The girl staring back looked the same, but her eyes were different. The soft, hopeful light was extinguished. In its place was a shard of ice.

I went to my jewelry box and dug to the bottom. I pulled out the silver coin Ethan had given me when we were eighteen. Fidelitas, it read. Loyalty.

I squeezed it until the metal bit into my palm. I squeezed until I felt a drop of warm blood trickle down my wrist.

For the first time in my life, I didn't pray for patience. I prayed for rain, so it could wash the blood off my hands when I eventually burned this whole lie to the ground.