Chapter 8

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Alert: Mature Content. Contains graphic and explicit scenes. It isss a compilation of irresistible. erotic fantasies and adventures. ****** "You're mine," he whispered, his mouth tracing fire down her neck. "And I'll prove it until you can't remember what it felt like to be untouched." Her protest died in a gasp as he pushed her panties aside and slid two fingers into her in one smooth motion. Her hips bucked helplessly, clutching at him even as she whispered, "Stop, stop-" But she didn't push him away. She pulled him closer. "That's it," he said, his thumb circling her clit, his pace merciless. "Let me hear the truth." Her moans filled the room, drowning out the TV, the world beyond. The orgasm ripped through her before she was ready, leaving her sobbing into his shoulder, clinging to him as though he were the only solid thing in existence. But he wasn't done. He squeezed her throat, just enough to make her choke on her next breath. "Say it." Her body convulsed as another orgasm tore through her, violent and uncontrollable. The words spilled out with her scream. "I'm your slut!" His grin was feral, triumphant. "Good girl." He flipped her onto her stomach, dragging her hips up, slamming back into her soaked pussy from behind. Her face pressed into the cushions, muffling her cries as he pounded into her. "You'll never forget this," he growled, pulling her hair so her head snapped back. "Every time you sit at that desk, every time you look your coworkers in the eye, you'll remember me fucking you like this. You'll remember what you are." Her body shook with another climax, juices spilling down her thighs, soaking the couch. She sobbed into the cushions, too wrecked to resist, too consumed to deny. She couldn't deny it anymore, God help her, but she was addicted to this demon of lust of hers.

For three years, I've been the wife of Dante Moretti, the head of the Chicago Bratva. My only purpose was to give him an heir. Today, I stared at the second pink line on a pregnancy test-a death sentence. But my husband didn't want a wife. He wanted a vessel. Hiding outside his office door, I heard him talking to his sister, Isabella. They were placing a million-dollar bet on the gender of my unborn child. "But what about her?" Isabella asked. "Once she gives you the heir, she'll be useless." The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. "She served her purpose," Dante said, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "A broodmare is only valuable when it can produce. After that..." He didn't have to finish. In his world, useless things are discarded. Violently. Every touch, every calculated smile had been a lie to secure his dynasty. He saw a legacy, not a child. He saw a vessel, not a wife. The only way to win his game was to knock the whole board over. I pulled out my phone and called the clinic my friend had told me about. "Yes," I said, my voice a stranger's, hollow and steady. "I'd like to schedule a termination."

For fifteen years, I was Isabella Moretti, the perfect wife to the city's most powerful Don. We were a power couple, a carefully curated masterpiece of influence and affection. Our life was flawless. That masterpiece shattered on our anniversary when a burner phone lit up with a picture of his assistant's hand on my husband's thigh. Soon, I found his second phone and discovered the full scope of his betrayal. His mistress, Sofia, was pregnant. He lied to my face about "work emergencies" while she began a campaign of terror, sending me photos of them together, a grainy ultrasound, and a video of her parading in my silk robe, bragging about becoming the new Mrs. Moretti. I was supposed to endure it in silence. That's the rule for a Don's wife. But all the pain hollowed out, leaving only a cold, chilling certainty. He truly believed I was nothing without him. "Where would you go, Bella?" he'd once laughed, his voice dripping with condescension. "Everything you have, everything you are, is because of me. You wouldn't last a week." He thought it was a game. "I'll take that bet," he'd said. So while he was away on a final "business trip" with her, I made my move. I liquidated our assets and hired movers to strip our mansion bare, erasing every trace of my existence. I walked out forever, but not before leaving two gifts on the empty mattress where we once slept: the signed divorce papers, and the melted, grotesque slug of gold that used to be my wedding ring.

On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn't miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman-his ruthless business partner-from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: "Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business." For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I'd marked. He didn't know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.