I waited until I was sure Massimo had whisked Arianna away before dragging myself to Ducati headquarters, divorce papers
clutched in my trembling hands.
“Mrs. Ducati, the boss is handling some business with the Palermo syndicate. He can’t be interrupted right now,” Paolo, his head of security, said politely but firmly,
Business meeting? Bullshit. I could hear Arianna’s gentle voice drifting through the door.
The blinds were slightly open, and what I saw through that gap made my stomach twist into knots.
Massimo–the man who’d once watched his enemies get their kneecaps shattered without flinching was down on one knee, using tiny tweezers to pull splinters from Arianna’s palm with the tenderness of a surgeon.
She was sitting in his massive leather chair like she belonged there, her white dress still dusty from the theater, beat–up sneakers swinging back and forth. She looked so small, so precious.
And him? This bastard who’d made me watch him execute people was frowning with such intense concentration, like those little
splinters were more painful to him than any bullet he’d ever taken.
God, I used to hate pain too.
But on our wedding night, when I cut my hand on broken champagne glass, he’d looked at me like I was something disgusting
“Clean that up. I can’t stand the smell of blood.”
After that, I learned to suffer in silence. No bandages, no complaints, nothing,
“Ma’am…” Paolo was getting uncomfortable behind me.
I laughed, and it came out sharp and bitter. “Don’t worry about it. When’s he gonna be done? I’ve got papers for him to sign.”
Paolo took the divorce documents, sliding them under a stack of other contracts like they were just another piece of business.
I thought–hoped, maybe–that Massimo would at least pause when he saw what they were.
He didn’t even read them. Just flipped to the back page and scrawled his signature like he was approving a fucking grocery list.
When Paolo handed the papers back to me, I nearly dropped them. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold on.
I was fifteen when I found out I was engaged to Massimo Ducati,
They told me he was different–couldn’t feel physical pain, emotionally stunted, hated being touched by anyone.
He didn’t love me. But back then, I thought he didn’t love anyone, so at least we were on equal ground.
I was so fucking naive. I thought if I was perfect enough, quiet enough, maybe I could crack through that ice around his heart.
Ten years. Ten goddamn years I spent trying to make him see me.
But now it was over. All of it. Finally.
Back at the mansion, I marched straight to my closet and ripped out my wedding dress.
Chapter 2
“Maria,” I called to our housekeeper, “burn this. Tonight.”
She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Señora, you love that dress. You always said-”
“I said a lot of stupid things.” I laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. “I used to think this dress meant I’d won something. Like I’d tamed the untameable Massimo Ducati.”
What a joke.
“There’s gonna be someone new living here soon,” I said, watching the flames eat through the silk and beading. “And trust me, she won’t want any reminders of the pathetic woman who came before her.”
The dress curled and blackened, ten years of delusion going up in smoke.
Good fucking riddance.
