His Wife, His Uncle’s Obsession

I’m sitting in the powder room with a pill bottle in my hand and sweat gathering in my palm.

Laughter drifts in from the next room, light and cruel in that practiced way women can be when they want to wound without seeming to.

“There’s no way the Don is marrying that washed-up Caruso girl. Be serious. His first love is coming back next week.”

“I heard he never wanted this engagement in the first place. Tonight’s dinner is probably where they call it off.”

Call it off.

The words hit so hard my hand jerks, and the glass of whiskey nearly slips from my fingers.

My engagement to Luca was never about love. It was a bargain. The Caruso name in exchange for Marino protection.

And more importantly—my grandmother’s medical care.

I can still hear Luca’s grandmother in the sitting room yesterday afternoon.

“Marry into this family, and your grandmother gets the best treatment money can buy. Otherwise…”

She hadn’t needed to finish.

I tighten my grip around the pill. My uncle said it was only something to make Luca sleep. Nothing more. One night of scandal, one morning of damage control, and the wedding would be locked in place.

The door swings open.

I jump so hard the pills slip from my hand all at once, dropping straight into the whiskey. Tiny white discs vanish into the amber liquid, dissolving before I can think.

Luca stands in the doorway.

Charcoal suit. Silver-gray tie. Hair immaculate. His gaze lands on me, cool and unreadable.

“Drinking alone?” he asks.

“I—”

My throat closes.

He walks toward me, takes the glass from my hand, and downs it in one swallow. The empty tumbler clicks against the vanity when he sets it down.

“You shouldn’t be drinking whiskey on an empty stomach,” he says.

Then he turns toward the door. “Come on. Everyone’s waiting.”

I follow him into the hallway, my legs unsteady. Portraits of long-dead Marino men line the walls, each one watching from gilt frames like they already know what I’ve done.

At the head table, Luca rests a hand at my waist. The ballroom quiets almost instantly.

“Thank you all for coming,” he says, voice calm, carrying easily through the room. “Tonight, I’d like to make something official.”

His hand tightens, just slightly.

“Elena Caruso and I will be married next month.”

Applause breaks out around us. Some polite. Some eager. Some calculating.

Every eye in the room lands on me.

But I’m frozen.

I had convinced myself he didn’t want this. The rumors. His distance. The way he always looked at me like I was already part of an obligation he resented.

But now he’s standing in front of everyone, claiming me without hesitation.

He was never planning to break the engagement.

A sick twist of realization moves through me. I can’t tell whether I want to cry from relief or shame.

Then I see it happen.

Luca’s expression shifts.

A crease forms between his brows. His breathing changes. He loosens his grip on me and braces one hand against the table.

This isn’t sleepiness.

This is something else.

“Boss?” Marco, his chief of security, is at his side in seconds. “Are you all right?”

Luca waves him off, but his jaw is tight now, and there’s something wrong in his eyes.

Marco leans in, reads whatever he sees, then straightens and smiles at the room with smooth efficiency.

“The Don’s had a little too much to drink tonight. He’s feeling lightheaded. Please, enjoy yourselves.”

No one questions him. No one in this room would dare.

Luca turns, already heading for the door. As he passes me, his hand closes around my wrist.

“Come with me.”

“Luca—”

“Not a word.”

He drags me out of the ballroom so fast I lose one of my heels in the corridor and barely notice.

The moment we’re inside his room, he slams the door behind us and spins to face me.

His eyes are bloodshot now. Burning.

“Elena.” His voice is rough, dangerous. “What did you put in my drink?”

I shake my head too quickly. “It was only supposed to make you sleep—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He’s in front of me before I can breathe. His hands lock around my shoulders and pin me back against the mirror. The glass is cold against my spine. His body is all heat.

“Why?” he asks, staring at me like he doesn’t recognize me anymore. “Why would you do this?”

I try to explain. I try to tell him I didn’t mean—

But whatever was in that glass is already taking hold, and everything spirals.

What follows is a blur of force, fury, and humiliation. The room tilts in and out of focus. His anger turns merciless. My protests dissolve into broken sounds. The night becomes fragments—shattered silk, bruising hands, the cold edge of furniture, the sting of tears, the unbearable weight of what I’ve done.

By the time it’s over, I feel hollowed out.

I don’t know when I fall asleep.

When I wake, every inch of me hurts.

The sheets are twisted around my legs. My body feels battered, heavy, wrong. I turn my head and find Luca already dressed, standing near the bed, watching me.

The look on his face is colder than anything from last night.

I clutch the sheet to my chest on instinct.

He gives a short, humorless laugh.

“That innocent act is impressive,” he says. “You almost had me convinced.”

My mouth goes dry. “Luca…”

He cuts me off with a look sharp enough to slice.

“Call it what you want. A mistake. Desperation. Survival.” His voice turns flat. “It doesn’t matter.”

He pauses, letting the silence do its damage.

“The engagement still stands,” he says at last. “But even if this marriage goes through, I will never touch you again.”

Any woman in the world would break down crying if she heard those words the day after her wedding.

But I didn't cry. I even forced my head up and pulled out a smile.

What came out of my mouth was something else entirely.