I took a deep breath and gave Marco a sweet, grateful smile. “Thank you, Marco. Having you here gives me so much strength.”

Damian’s fists clenched so hard I could hear his knuckles crack.

Later that night, I had just stepped out of the shower when my bedroom door was pushed open.

Damian stood there, reeking of alcohol, his eyes bloodshot.

He walked towards me step by step, his scent mixed with whiskey enveloping me.

Before I could react, he had me pinned against the wall behind the door.

“Serafina,” his voice was hoarse, laced with fury. “What the hell do you want?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His hot lips crashed down on mine.

The kiss was an invasion, a punishment. It wasn’t a kiss at all, but the bite of a wild animal.

I wrinkled my nose in disgust and turned my head away just as he tried to deepen it.

He froze, his chest heaving as if he was struggling to control himself.

After a moment, he buried his face in my neck, his voice surprisingly laced with a hint of hurt.

“Do we have to be like this? You never used to be like this.”

I almost laughed out loud.

When the real Serafina gave him her heart and soul, he ignored her.

Now that I was giving him a taste of his own cold medicine, he was the one feeling hurt?

I placed my hand on his chest, feeling his heart pound wildly beneath his shirt. “Are you jealous?” I whispered.

Damian’s body went rigid.

He snapped his head up, his eyes locking onto mine in the dim light. His lips parted, but he was speechless.

Finally, as if I’d struck a nerve, he let me go, turned on his heel, and slammed the door behind him.

The next day, I was on Fifth Avenue, browsing for a pair of cufflinks for Marco—a small thank you for his stellar acting performance.

But when I went to pay, the cashier handed my black card back to me. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Falcone,” she said apologetically. “Your card has been frozen.”

Before I could say anything, my phone buzzed.

It was a text from Damian, arrogant and condescending: [When you figure out how to be a proper wife, you can come and talk to me. Until then, all Falcone assets in your name are inaccessible.]

He thought he had me.

He thought I would panic, just like the old Serafina, and come crawling back to him once my money was cut off.

I looked at the text and sneered.

I pulled out a second phone and made a call.

“Lawyer Rosen? This is Serafina Russo. The trust fund my mother left me from the Russo family—I want to activate it. Now.”

At three o’clock that afternoon, at an investment press conference at One World Trade Center, I stood on the stage next to Marco, his most important new business partner.

I was dressed in a sharp white power suit, and the camera flashes were blinding.

I smiled brightly for the cameras, knowing Damian would be watching.

After the successful press conference, Marco handed me a glass of champagne. “Congratulations, Serafina. That was a brilliant counterattack.”

Just as I was about to toast with him, the phone in my purse started vibrating violently.

I pulled it out to see the screen filled with over twenty missed calls, all from Damian.

I ignored it and was about to turn the phone off when the screen lit up again. This time, it was the private line from the Falcone manor. I knew it was the old godfather, the one who had supposedly retired years ago.

I answered the call.

There was a second of silence, then a stern, aged voice boomed through the phone.

“Serafina, have you had enough of your games?!”