The Final Score: When The Wife Walks Away

I didn't keep a ledger to save my marriage to the Chicago Underboss. I kept it to justify ending it.

Every time Blake chose his "childhood friend" Ariana over me, I deducted points.

When he left me burning in a gallery fire to save her? Minus twenty.

When he gave her my grandmother's brooch? Minus fifteen.

But the score finally hit zero on the night of the storm.

Blake abandoned me at a cemetery with a broken leg because Ariana called him about a flat tire.

Alone in the rain, unable to run, I was struck by a semi-truck.

As I bled out on the operating table, the doctors begged Blake-the head trauma surgeon-for the O-negative blood reserve codes.

He refused.

He ordered them to save the blood for Ariana, just in case her "panic attack" turned into shock.

He didn't know the dying patient was his wife.

Because of that decision, my body shut down to protect my vital organs.

I survived, but the eight-week-old heartbeat inside me stopped.

He killed his own son to treat his mistress's anxiety.

I woke up in an empty room and pulled out the black book one last time.

"Minus five points. Killed our child for her reserve."

I signed the divorce papers, wiped my fingerprints from the penthouse, and vanished.

Two years later, I returned to Chicago as a celebrated architect.

And the man who once ruled the city was kneeling in the rain at my feet, begging for a love he had already slaughtered.

Chapter 1

I didn't start keeping score to save my marriage; I started keeping score to justify ending it.

The leather-bound ledger sat heavy in Blake's hand-a stark, ink-black blot against the pristine white marble of our master closet island.

He flipped it open.

His eyes-usually the cold, calculating gray of a Chicago winter sky-scanned the pages.

He is the Underboss of the Chicago Outfit.

A man who can order a hit with a mere nod.

A man who could cut people open on operating tables to save them, just as easily as he gutted them in alleyways to silence them.

But right now, he didn't look lethal. He looked confused.

"What is this, Caroline?"

His voice was a low rumble, the specific frequency that usually made grown men tremble.

I adjusted the silk lapel of my blouse, fighting the urge to cross my arms and protect my chest.

"It is an accounting of our assets," I said, my voice unnervingly steady. "And our liabilities."

He laughed.

It was a sharp, dismissive sound.

"You're counting dates missed? Dinners interrupted? This is petty, even for you."

"It is not petty," I replied, locking my knees to keep them from shaking. "It is data. And the data suggests a terminal trend."

He tossed the book back onto the island.

It slid across the marble, stopping inches from my hand.

"You are a Santos now," he said, stepping into my personal space.

The scent of sandalwood and expensive scotch filled my nose.

It used to make my knees weak.

Now, it just smelled like loneliness.

"You don't get to walk away just because you're bored," he whispered, his knuckles grazing my cheek-a possessive, not tender, gesture. "We don't do divorce, Caroline. We do death."

My phone didn't ring.

His did.

The ringtone was specific.

It wasn't the standard trill for business, nor the respectful buzz for his grandfather, the Don.

It was a soft, melodic chime.

Her.

Blake's demeanor shifted instantly.

The predator vanished, replaced by the protector.

"Ariana?" he answered, turning his back to me without hesitation.

I watched the muscles in his shoulders tense beneath his suit jacket.

"Slow down," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Where are you? The gallery?"

He listened for a heartbeat, then spun around, already moving toward the door.

"I have to go."

"We have dinner with Senator Moretti in twenty minutes," I reminded him, my voice cool. "This is for the zoning permits on the waterfront project."

"Ariana's gallery is on fire," he said, his gaze already distant, detached from me. "Someone threw a Molotov cocktail through the window."

I picked up the ledger.

I uncapped my pen.

"Minus ten points," I murmured to the empty room.

He paused at the door, his hand gripping the frame until his knuckles turned white.

"People could die, Caroline. Have a heart."

"Neglected future for her crisis," I finished writing, the ink dark and permanent.

I followed him.

Not because I cared about Ariana, but because I was the architect who had designed the gallery.

If it fell, my reputation fell with it.

We took the armored SUV.

Blake drove with calculated recklessness, weaving through the evening traffic and blowing through red lights.

When we arrived, the Whitfield Gallery was a gaping maw of destruction.

Orange flames licked up the modern glass façade I had spent six months meticulously designing.

Smoke billowed into the night sky, choking out the stars.

Mark, Blake's Capo and best friend, was already there, shouting orders at the soldiers to set up a perimeter.

"Boss, fire department is two minutes out!" Mark yelled over the roar of the blaze. "It's too unstable!"

Blake didn't stop.

He slammed the car into park and jumped out before the engine even died.

"Ariana!" he screamed.

It was a raw, terrified sound-a sound he had never made for me.

"She's inside!" a sobbing assistant pointed to the entrance. "She went back for the paintings!"

Mark grabbed Blake's arm. "Blake, no! The roof is compromising!"

Blake shoved Mark away with enough force to send the large man stumbling back.

He didn't look for me.

He didn't check if I was safe.

He ran straight into the fire.

I stood by the SUV, the heat searing my skin even from this distance.

I should have stayed back.

But the structural plans were etched into my mind.

I knew where the load-bearing walls were.

I knew where the collapse would happen.

I ran after him.

The heat inside was a physical blow, a solid wall of pressure.

Smoke stung my eyes, blinding me with tears.

"Blake!" I screamed, coughing as the acrid air filled my lungs.

I saw a silhouette through the haze.

He had her.

He was cradling Ariana in his arms, his expensive cashmere coat wrapped around her head to shield her from the smoke.

She was clinging to him, perfectly unharmed, burying her face in his chest.

He turned to the exit.

He saw me.

For a split second that stretched into an eternity, our eyes locked through the swirling smoke.

He looked at me.

Then, he looked down at the woman in his arms.

He made his choice.

He kept moving toward the door.

Above me, metal groaned-a sickening, tearing sound.

The support beam.

"Blake!" I cried out, raising my hand as if to ward off the blow.

He didn't stop.

He rushed her out into the cool night air.

The beam gave way.

It slammed into my shoulder with the force of a freight train, driving me into the burning floor.

Pain-white, hot, and blinding-exploded down my arm and shattered my composure.

I lay on the burning floor, watching the empty doorway where my husband had just disappeared.

I dragged myself backward, inch by agonizing inch, choking on ash and the smell of my own singing hair.

Outside, I could hear sirens.

I could hear him shouting for paramedics for her.

With trembling fingers, I fished the small notebook from my pocket using my good hand.

The pages were warm, the ink smudged with soot.

Minus twenty points.

Saved the mistress.

Let the wife burn.

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and lies.

My arm was encased in a sling, and the second-degree burn on my shoulder throbbed in a violent staccato, syncing perfectly with my heartbeat.

I carried a thermos of bone broth in my good hand.

It was an old recipe, something my mother used to make for the sick and the weary. I told myself that maybe-just maybe-if I played the part of the dutiful wife well enough, the reality would bend to match the performance.

I reached the door to the private suite.

It was cracked open.

I didn't walk in. I froze.

Blake was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Ariana was propped up against a mountain of pillows, looking less like a patient and more like a tragic porcelain doll.

She wasn't burned. She wasn't even singed. The only injury she sported was a microscopic scratch on her cheek and a relentless, gaping need for attention.

Blake held a spoon.

He blew on the soup, testing the temperature against his own lip with a tenderness that made my stomach turn, before offering it to her.

"Eat," he murmured. "You're in shock."

"I lost everything, Blake," she whimpered. "My art. My vision."

"We will rebuild it," he promised. "Better. Bigger."

"I was so scared," she whispered, leaning into his hand. "I thought I was going to die alone."

"I would never let that happen," he said.

His voice was thick with guilt.

I recognized that tone. It was the sound of a debt being paid.

Ten years ago, a hit meant for a Santos soldier went wrong. Ariana was a bystander. She got hurt. Blake, then just a medical student, had saved her life on the pavement.

He decided then and there to become a trauma surgeon. Not to save the city. To save her.

Every surgery he performed, every life he saved, was just him paying penance to the ghost of the girl bleeding on the sidewalk.

I pushed the door open with my hip, intruding on their private little tragedy.

Blake looked up.

His eyes narrowed when he saw me.

"You should be resting," he said, his voice instantly dropping the velvet softness he used for her.

"I brought you dinner," I said, lifting the thermos. "And broth for her."

He waved a hand dismissively.

"She can't keep anything down but clear soup. The cafeteria slop is fine."

He turned back to Ariana. "Open up."

I set the thermos on the side table with a heavy thud.

"The board meeting for the Family Charity is tomorrow," I said, forcing the conversation to business. "I need to review the donor list."

Blake sighed, putting the spoon down with a sharp clatter.

"Caroline, look at her. She's traumatized. She just lost her livelihood."

"And I almost lost my arm," I said flatly.

He glanced at my sling with clinical detachment.

"It's a hairline fracture and a second-degree burn. You'll heal. You're tough."

I hated that word.

Tough.

It was the word he used to justify hurting me. It was the shield he forced me to carry so he didn't have to worry about the weight of his own neglect.

"Ariana needs something to focus on," Blake continued. "Something to give her purpose while the gallery is rebuilt."

I felt a cold pit form in my stomach.

"What are you saying?"

"Give her your seat on the Charity Board," he said.

It wasn't a question.

It was an order from the Underboss.

"That seat manages a five-million-dollar budget," I argued, my voice rising. "It requires strategic planning. Ariana is a painter."

"I understand trauma," Ariana piped up, her voice trembling on cue. "I understand what it's like to be a victim. I can connect with people."

She looked at Blake with wide, watery eyes.

"I just want to help, Blake. Like you help people."

He melted.

I saw the steel in his spine turn to water.

"It's done," Blake said to me, his tone final. "Resign the seat tomorrow. Ariana takes over next week."

"She isn't qualified," I said, my voice tight.

"She is under my protection," he snapped. "That makes her qualified."

Ariana smiled.

It was a small, smug thing, hidden behind a tissue.

"Thank you, Blake," she whispered. "You always know what I need."

I looked at the thermos of broth. I had spent four hours simmering it, skimming the fat, making it perfect.

"I'll send the paperwork," I said.

I walked out.

I didn't go to my room.

I sat in the hallway on a cheap plastic chair and pulled out the ledger.

Minus five points.

Gave my seat to the whore.

Score: 45.

Three years.

That was how long I had been Caroline Santos.

Tonight was our anniversary.

I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the penthouse, smoothing down the emerald silk of my dress. The fabric felt cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat rising in my chest.

Bridget, our housekeeper and the only person in this fortress who looked at me with anything resembling pity, adjusted the hem.

"Why do you stay, Mrs. Santos?" she asked quietly.

She knew about the bag.

Hidden in the back of the guest closet, buried behind the heavy winter coats, was a duffel bag. Inside, there was a passport. Stacks of cash. And the access keys to an offshore account.

"The math isn't done yet," I told her.

"Math?" she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"I need the score to hit zero," I said, turning to look at her directly. "If I leave before zero, I'm the villain. I'm the wife who walked away from a difficult man. But if I leave at zero... I'm just surviving."

The intercom buzzed, slicing through the silence.

"Mrs. Santos? Mr. Santos is waiting on the terrace."

I took a steadying breath.

Then, I put on my smile.

The terrace was breathtaking.

Candlelight flickered against the backdrop of the Chicago skyline, mimicking the stars we couldn't see through the city's haze. A private chef had prepared a seven-course meal, the aroma of truffle and roasted herbs drifting in the air.

Blake stood by the railing, holding two glasses of vintage wine.

He looked devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo. The tailored black wool emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw.

For a moment, just a second, I remembered why I fell in love with him before the marriage was arranged.

He turned and handed me a glass.

"To stability," he said.

Not to love.

Not to us.

To stability.

The alliance between our families. The merger.

"To stability," I echoed, the wine tasting like vinegar on my tongue.

We sat.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black velvet box.

"Happy anniversary, Caroline."

My heart gave a stupid, hopeful little jump against my ribs.

I reached for it.

Suddenly, his phone rang.

The chime. That distinct, piercing notification.

My hand froze in mid-air.

"Don't," I said.

It was the first time I had ever given him an order.

He looked at me, surprised, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

"It could be an emergency."

"It's always an emergency with her," I said, my voice steady. "Tonight is three years, Blake. Let it go to voicemail."

He hesitated.

His thumb hovered over the screen, caught between habit and duty.

Then, slowly, he flipped the phone over.

"You're right," he said. "Tonight is about us."

He pushed the velvet box toward me across the white tablecloth.

"Open it."

I lifted the lid.

Diamond drop earrings glittered under the candlelight.

Exquisite.

Tasteful.

And utterly cold.

"They're beautiful," I said.

"They reminded me of your eyes," he said. "Sharp. Clear."

Suddenly, a commotion at the terrace doors made us both turn.

Security was trying to stop someone, voices raised in protest.

"Let me through! I need to see him!"

Ariana burst onto the terrace.

She was wearing a trench coat over pajamas, her hair wild and tangled around her face.

And pinned to her lapel was the Santos Family Brooch.

The antique silver rose that was supposed to belong to the Underboss's wife. My grandmother's rose.

Blake stood up immediately, his chair scraping back.

"Ariana? What's wrong?"

She rushed past me, knocking into the table. Wine sloshed onto the white tablecloth, staining it like fresh blood.

"I can't breathe, Blake," she gasped, clutching her chest. "The fire... I keep smelling smoke. I'm having a panic attack."

She collapsed into his arms.

He caught her, holding her tight, anchoring her weight against him.

"Shh, breathe," he instructed, slipping instantly into doctor mode. "Count with me. One, two..."

I sat there, the velvet box still open in my hand.

"She's wearing my grandmother's brooch," I said calmly.

Blake didn't hear me.

He was stroking her hair.

"I'm sorry," Ariana sobbed into his tuxedo, muffling her voice against the expensive fabric. "I didn't know where else to go. You're the only one who makes it stop."

She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face.

Then, her gaze shifted. She looked at the box in my hand.

"Oh," she sniffled. "Is that... for me?"

She reached out and touched the diamonds with a trembling finger.

"They're so sparkly. Like the ones I lost in the fire."

Blake looked at her tear-stained face.

Then he looked at me.

He looked at the earrings.

"Caroline doesn't even have her ears pierced," Ariana lied, her voice innocent. "Do you, Caroline?"

I did.

Blake knew I did.

But Blake saw a damsel in distress, and he saw a wife who was 'tough.' He saw a problem he could solve versus a woman who didn't need him.

"Actually," Blake said, his voice tight. "These might be too heavy for Caroline. She prefers... simpler things."

He took the box from my hand.

He gently closed my fingers over empty air.

"Here," he said to Ariana, handing her the box. "To help you feel better. A get-well gift."

Ariana squealed, holding the diamonds to her ears, her panic vanishing instantly.

"Thank you, Blake! You saved me again."

I stood up.

My chair scraped loudly against the stone floor, the sound harsh in the night air.

"I'm going to the powder room," I said.

Neither of them looked at me.

I walked into the bathroom and locked the door with a decisive click.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

The emerald dress looked like a costume now.

I pulled out the notebook I kept hidden in the vanity.

Minus fifteen points.

Regifted my dignity.

Score: 30.