He Chose A Fake Heir Over His True Wife

My husband studied the fertility report on his desk with the same cold precision he used to order executions.

On our fifth anniversary, he didn't give me diamonds. He checked his Rolex and delivered the sentence that ended my life.

"Your genetic profile is defective, Catarina."

He didn't just ask for a divorce. He pressed a button on his intercom, and a woman walked in. She was loud, chewing gum, and wearing a dress that was too tight.

"This is Aria," Alex said, his voice flat. "She is a vessel. She will carry the heir your body cannot produce."

He claimed it was just business, that she would be exiled once the child was born. But at my birthday gala, when Aria tripped into a champagne tower, the truth shattered along with the glass.

I was the one bleeding, a jagged shard slicing my arm.

But Alex didn't look at me. He threw his body over her. He cradled his mistress, screaming for a doctor to check the baby, while I stood there with blood dripping onto the marble floor, completely invisible.

I watched him give his own blood to save her in the clinic later that night. I saw the way he looked at her-not like a vessel, but like a prize.

He thought I would stay. He thought I was the obedient Mafia wife who would raise his mistress's child to save the family image.

So when he handed me a stack of papers to "protect the assets," he was too arrogant to read them.

He didn't notice the header read *Decree of Divorce*.

While he was busy buying baby clothes for a child that didn't even exist, I wiped my identity from the servers, signed the papers he blindly authorized, and boarded a one-way jet to Paris.

By the time he realizes his "heir" is a fraud, I will already be a ghost.

Chapter 1

Catarina DeLuca POV

My husband studied the fertility report on his desk as if it were a botched hit, his eyes scanning the data with the same cold precision he used to order executions.

He refused to meet my gaze.

Instead, he checked his Rolex, the gold glinting under the harsh office lights, and delivered the sentence that ended my life.

"Your genetic profile is defective, Catarina."

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

I sat perfectly still in the leather chair.

I folded my hands in my lap to hide the tremors.

Alexander DeLuca was the Underboss of New York.

He was a man who had buried seventeen rivals in the foundations of the new casino.

He was a man who commanded an army of soldiers and owned half the politicians in the state.

But he could not command my body to produce a child.

"Defective," I whispered.

It wasn't a question.

It was an echo of the failure that had haunted me for five years.

Alex finally looked up.

His eyes were dark, devoid of the warmth they used to hold when we were first married.

Now, they were merely mirrors reflecting his ambition.

"It is a mitochondrial flaw," he said, his voice flat.

He tapped the paper with a manicured finger.

"The doctors say the viability is near zero."

He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the city he ruled.

"The laws of Cosa Nostra are absolute, Catarina. The bloodline must remain pure."

I knew the law.

I was born into this life.

I was a Jensen before I was a DeLuca.

I knew that a barren wife in the Mafia was worse than a dead one.

She was a liability.

A loose end.

"My father gave me an ultimatum this morning," Alex said, his back still turned to me.

"I have one year to produce an heir. One year, or I forfeit my title as Underboss."

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Forfeit the title?

Alex lived for the title.

He breathed power.

He would burn the world to ash before he gave up his birthright.

"So what are you saying, Alex?" I asked, my voice steady despite the nausea rising in my throat.

"Are you divorcing me?"

He turned around then.

He looked at me with a strange mixture of pity and annoyance.

"No. Divorce is messy. It shows weakness."

He pressed a button on his intercom.

"Send her in."

The heavy oak doors opened.

A woman walked in.

She was everything I was not.

I was pale, blonde, and composed-the perfect Ice Queen.

She was dark, curvaceous, and loud.

She wore a dress that was too tight and heels that were too high.

She was chewing gum.

"This is Aria Diaz," Alex said.

The woman smirked at me, popping a bubble of gum.

"Nice place," she said, her eyes roaming over the expensive art on the walls.

Alex walked over to her.

He didn't touch her, but the air between them crackled with a familiarity that made my stomach turn.

"Aria is the solution," Alex said.

"She is a vessel."

I stood up.

My legs felt like lead.

"A vessel?"

"She has been screened," Alex continued, as if discussing a new shipment of guns.

"Her genetic profile is compatible. She will carry the heir."

I looked from him to her.

"You are bringing a mistress into our marriage?"

"It is a business arrangement, Catarina," Alex snapped.

"Do not be dramatic. She is a womb. Nothing more."

"Once the child is born, she will be paid and exiled. We will raise the child as ours. Our marriage will return to normal."

Normal.

He thought this was normal.

He thought shattering my heart to save his legacy was a logical business move.

Don Donato, his father, walked into the room then.

The Don was old, shrunken, but his eyes were sharp as glass shards.

He looked at me with open disdain.

"It is done?" the Don asked.

Alex nodded.

"It is done."

The Don looked at Aria.

"Good hips. Make sure it is a boy."

Then he looked at me.

"You have one job now, Catarina. Maintain the image."

"Smile for the cameras. Do not embarrass my son while he secures the future of this family."

I looked at Alex.

I waited for him to defend me.

I waited for him to tell his father that I was his wife, not an employee.

But Alex just looked at Aria.

His gaze lingered on her waist, on the curve of her hips.

He wasn't looking at her like a vessel.

He was looking at her like a starving man looks at a feast.

I realized then that I had already lost him.

I wasn't the wife anymore.

I was just the benchwarmer.

I walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" Alex asked.

"Home," I said.

"I have a headache."

He didn't try to stop me.

He didn't even watch me leave.

He was already pouring a drink for Aria.

I walked out of the office and into the elevator.

As the doors closed, I saw Aria lean over the desk.

I saw her hand brush Alex's arm.

I saw him lean into her touch.

The elevator dropped, and my stomach dropped with it.

I drove myself home in a daze.

That night, Alex didn't come home.

He texted me at 2 AM.

"Monitoring the asset. Don't wait up."

I lay in our king-sized bed, staring at the empty pillow beside me.

It was our fifth anniversary.

On the nightstand, a tube of cheap drugstore lipstick sat where my diamond earrings used to be.

It wasn't mine.

It was a bright, vulgar red.

Just like Aria's dress.

He hadn't just brought a vessel into our lives.

He had brought a replacement.

And I was the only one who didn't know I had been fired.

The invitation to my own birthday gala sat on the vanity like a summons to an execution.

It was printed on heavy cardstock, the DeLuca crest embossed in arrogant gold leaf.

Mrs. Catarina DeLuca.

The name felt less like an identity and more like a costume I was suffocating in.

It had been two weeks since the meeting in the office. Two weeks of Alex stumbling home at dawn, reeking of cheap perfume and guilt. Two weeks of suffocating silence.

I turned to the safe hidden in the back of the closet and dialed the combination. Inside lay a black velvet box.

I lifted the lid.

The DeLuca Diamond Necklace stared back at me.

It was a family heirloom, a piece of history worth more than most people earned in a lifetime. Alex had fastened it around my neck on our wedding day, his breath hot against my ear as he whispered that I was the jewel of his empire.

Now, the heavy stones felt cold and dead in my hands, like frozen tears.

I didn't put it on.

Instead, I dropped the heavy piece into my purse. It landed with a dull thud-a safety net, or perhaps a weapon.

I walked into the living room, where the fireplace crackled with a hungry rhythm.

On the mantel stood the shrine of our marriage: photos of us. Our wedding. Our honeymoon in Bali. The time we laughed in the London rain, huddled under a single umbrella.

I looked at Alex's face in the glossy prints. He looked so happy. So in love.

It was all a lie.

Or maybe it wasn't a lie then. Maybe that made it worse-that he was capable of love, just not for a broken thing like me.

I took the photos down, one by one. With trembling fingers, I slid the pictures out of their silver frames.

I walked to the fireplace and didn't hesitate.

I fed them into the flames.

The glossy paper curled and blackened, bubbling as the heat consumed them. The smiles melted. The memories turned to ash. I watched them burn until there was nothing left but gray flakes dancing in the updraft.

Just then, the front door opened.

Alex walked in.

He was wearing his tuxedo for the gala, looking devastatingly handsome. But then, the devil usually does wear the best suits.

He stopped dead when he saw the empty mantel.

"Where are the photos?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

I turned to him, my face a porcelain mask of calm.

"I sent them to be reframed," I lied smoothly. "The silver was tarnished."

He nodded, accepting the lie without a second thought. He didn't care enough to question it.

"Ready?" he asked, checking his watch. "We cannot be late. My father expects a show."

I walked past him, catching a whiff of his cologne-and beneath it, the faint, metallic scent of another woman.

"I am always ready, Alex."

The gala was held in the penthouse of the DeLuca Tower.

It was a sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns, the air thick with the smell of expensive champagne and underlying fear.

I played my part perfectly. I smiled until my cheeks ached. I accepted compliments on my dress with practiced grace. I let Alex place his hand on the small of my back for the photographers.

His touch felt like a brand.

Then, the room went quiet.

The elevator doors slid open, and Aria Diaz walked out.

She wasn't wearing the uniform of the staff. She was wearing a red dress.

A dress that was a cheap, vulgar imitation of the one I had worn last year.

She was escorted by a young soldier, but her dark eyes were fixed solely on Alex.

The murmurs started immediately, rippling through the crowd like a shockwave.

"Who is that?"

"Why is she here?"

"Look at the Don. He is smiling."

Don Donato walked over to her and took her hand.

"Welcome, my dear," he boomed, his voice carrying across the silent room.

The crowd gasped. The Don never welcomed outsiders.

Beside me, Alex stiffened. He removed his hand from my back as if I were suddenly on fire.

He walked toward them.

He left me standing alone in the center of the room, a queen abandoned on her chessboard.

I watched as he greeted her. I watched as he introduced her to the Capos.

"A distant cousin," he said to them.

But his hand didn't stay at his side. It drifted to her lower back, lingering there, possessive and heavy.

He was marking his territory.

I stood frozen. I was the wife. I was the hostess.

But I was invisible.

Two Capos' wives were standing near me, their backs turned, unaware or uncaring of my proximity.

"Poor Catarina," one whispered, feigning sympathy.

"She doesn't know."

"Know what?" the other asked.

"He bought the villa in Lake Como. The one she wanted."

The whisper hit me like a physical blow.

"He is moving the girl there next month."

My blood ran cold.

Lake Como.

That was our dream. We had talked about it for years-a sanctuary away from the blood and the violence.

He had bought it for her.

I looked across the room.

Alex was whispering something to Aria. She threw her head back and laughed, a vulgar, loud sound that grated on my nerves.

Alex smiled at her.

It wasn't a polite smile. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated lust.

He was blinded by her. He was blinded by the promise of a son.

He didn't see the whispers. He didn't see the disrespect.

He didn't see me.

I felt something snap inside my chest.

It wasn't a break. It was a release.

I had been holding on so tight. Holding on to the hope that this was just a phase. That he still loved me.

But looking at him now, fawning over a woman who represented everything he claimed to hate, I realized the truth.

I was never his partner.

I was just an asset.

And assets can be liquidated.

I touched the purse at my side, feeling the hard, cold outline of the necklace through the leather.

I turned away from the scene.

I walked toward the exit, my head held high.

I wasn't going to cry. I wasn't going to scream.

I was going to make him pay.

I made a vow right there, amidst the champagne and the lies.

Alexander DeLuca wanted an heir more than anything in the world. He wanted a legacy.

I would give him a legacy.

I would leave him a legacy of absolute ruin.

The air in the ballroom had grown too thin, suffocating.

I needed to breathe.

I slipped away from the crushing weight of the crowd and ducked into a private lounge down the corridor.

It was dark. Quiet.

A sanctuary.

I leaned back against the heavy wood of the closed door, squeezing my eyes shut.

My chest ached with a physical, sharp pain.

It felt as though my ribs were constricting, a steel vice tightening around my heart, squeezing the life out of it.

I remained there for ten minutes.

Just breathing.

Just willing the porcelain mask of my composure not to shatter.

Then, I heard voices outside.

They were close.

Right on the other side of the wood.

"You are tense, baby."

It was Aria's voice.

Slurring. Needy.

I froze.

"Not here, Aria," Alex's voice replied.

It was rough. Impatient.

"Why not?" she giggled, the sound grating against the silence.

"The Ice Queen is busy playing hostess. She won't notice. She never notices anything."

I heard the wet, sickening sound of a kiss.

Sloppy and desperate.

"Stop," Alex groaned, though there was no force behind the command.

"My father is watching."

"Your father likes me," she purred. "He knows I'm real. Not like her."

"She's like a sculpture, Alex. Cold to the touch."

Silence.

Then Alex spoke again.

His voice was low, heavy with a dark frustration.

"She is cold. I haven't felt heat in that bed for years."

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and sudden.

I bit my lip until I tasted the copper tang of iron.

I was cold because I was terrified.

I was cold because every month, I failed him.

I was cold because he had ceased touching me with love and started touching me only with expectation.

"Be a good girl," Alex said, his tone dismissing.

"Wait for me at the hotel. I bought you that bracelet you wanted. The Cartier one."

"Yay!" Aria squealed.

I heard footsteps retreating down the hall.

I waited until the silence returned, thick and absolute.

Then, I opened the door.

I walked back into the party.

I had to finish the night.

I had to be perfect.

I spotted them near the bar.

Aria was swilling champagne.

Alex stood beside her, his gaze sweeping the room, scanning for threats.

He didn't see the threat walking straight toward him.

I approached them.

My head was high.

My steps were steady.

Aria saw me first.

Her eyes lit up with a drunken malice.

"Oh, look," she announced loudly. "The birthday girl."

She swayed on her feet, visibly intoxicated.

Alex turned.

His eyes widened the moment they landed on me.

"Catarina," he said. "I was looking for you."

Liar.

Then I saw it-the mark on Aria's neck.

A fresh, purple bruise blooming right above her collarbone.

A hickey.

He had marked her.

At my party.

Under my roof.

I stared at it.

Alex followed my gaze.

He flinched.

He actually flinched.

He reached out, pulling the collar of her dress up in a futile attempt to hide it.

Aria slapped his hand away.

"Don't be shy, Daddy," she slurred.

The room went silent.

Daddy.

The disrespect was absolute.

"Can I get you a drink, Mrs. DeLuca?" Aria asked, her voice dripping with mockery.

"Or is alcohol bad for your... condition?"

She pointed a manicured finger at my stomach.

My barren stomach.

Alex grabbed her arm, his grip hard.

"Enough, Aria."

I looked at her.

Then I looked at him.

"No, thank you," I said.

My voice was ice.

"I don't drink with the help."

Aria's face twisted in rage.

She lunged forward.

She tried to throw her drink at me, but her coordination failed her.

She tripped over her own feet.

She crashed into the champagne tower standing like a sentry beside us.

Glass shattered.

Crystal flutes rained down like jagged hail.

I tried to step back, but the floor was already slick.

I slipped.

I fell hard onto the shards.

A sharp, searing pain sliced through my forearm.

I looked down.

Blood.

Bright red blood was pouring from a gash in my arm, soaking instantly into the pristine white of my dress.

"Alex!" I gasped.

I looked up.

Alex was moving.

He was diving.

But not for me.

He threw his body over Aria.

He shielded her from the falling glass.

"Are you okay?" he shouted, his voice frantic.

"Did it hit you?"

"The baby! Check the baby!"

He was cradling her face.

He was checking her for scratches.

He was looking at her with pure, unadulterated terror.

I sat on the floor.

Bleeding.

Surrounded by broken glass.

And my husband didn't even know I was there.

The room was staring.

The Capos were watching.

Don Donato was watching.

They saw the choice he made.

He chose the vessel over the wife.

He chose the mere possibility of a son over the reality of me.

I stood up.

My arm was throbbing.

Blood dripped from my fingertips onto the marble floor.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I didn't call his name again.

I didn't ask for help.

I turned around and walked out of the ballroom.

The valet saw the blood and ran to get my car.

I drove myself to the Family Clinic.

I drove with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped tightly in a silk napkin.

When I arrived, the doctor stitched me up in silence.

Twelve stitches.

He bandaged my arm.

As I was leaving, I saw a car pull up.

Alex's car.

I retreated into the shadows of the waiting room.

Alex rushed in.

He was carrying Aria.

She wasn't bleeding.

She wasn't even crying.

She was laughing softly, her arms looped around his neck.

"Just a scare, baby," Alex was whispering.

"Just a scare."

He kissed her forehead.

He held her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

I watched them.

I felt the weight of the bandage on my arm.

I felt the emptiness in my womb.

But the heaviest thing was the realization settling in my heart.

I was a liability.

I was an obstacle.

I walked out the back exit into the biting cold of the night air.

I took out my phone.

I typed a message to the encrypted number my father had given me years ago.

The number for the emergency exit.

I didn't send it yet.

But I saved the draft.

The fire in the fireplace had burned the photos.

But the cold fire inside me was going to burn everything else.