After my father died, I decided to divorce my husband—the Underboss of the Moretti family—and return forever to the quiet town where I grew up.

Day one, I tricked my husband, Julian, into signing a document. It was our divorce agreement.

Day five, I submitted my resignation letter to the private school where I taught.

Day seven, I cooked a lavish farewell dinner for all my so-called "friends."

Julian Moretti frowned, scolding me for making dishes that his childhood sweetheart, Isabella, didn't like.

I stood up and raised a glass to Isabella.

From this day forward, Julian Moretti would have nothing to do with me.

Two weeks later, back in my small town, I saw Julian. He’d returned, claiming to be finished with "family business."

Only this time, the country breeze reddened his eyes.

...

Three days after my father’s death, Julian still hadn't shown up.

"Father Michael, I've made up my mind. I'm going to honor my father's last wish and stay here to teach the children."

I said this firmly to the old priest of our town's church as I finished packing my bags.

The old man hesitated, trying to reason with me.

"My dear child, you worked so hard to marry into such a powerful family. Why would you come back to suffer in this poor town?"

I shook my head and looked down at the worn-out watch on my wrist. It was the only thing my father had left me.

"I'm not afraid of suffering. Give me seven days. I'll handle everything and divorce him."

At seven that evening, I finally returned to our home on the Moretti family estate.

The food on the table was still there, exactly as I had left it, now completely cold.

I had just put down my luggage when heavy footsteps approached the door.

Julian walked in, tall and imposing in an expensive Italian suit, his voice as cold as ever.

"Is there anything to eat? The kitchen staff is gone. Heat something up, put it in a container, and I'll take it to Bella."

"She's been sick the last couple of days and can't cook for herself."

I turned around, letting him see my pale, exhausted face.

"I just got back. I haven't cooked anything."

Julian's brow furrowed. He didn't ask where I had been, nor did he seem to notice how drained I looked.

He simply walked straight to the kitchen.

Right now, his mind was completely occupied with the well-being of his first love.

I stood frozen, watching him awkwardly pull eggs and bacon from the fridge to make a sandwich.

In five years of marriage, this was the first time I had ever seen him cook for anyone.

Ever since Isabella had divorced her husband and moved back to New York, I had seen far too many changes like this.

After placing the sandwich and a carton of milk into an elegant container, Julian tried to walk past me, but I blocked his way.

"I need to go back to my hometown in a few days to sort out some things with my father's estate. Can you sign this authorization form so my lawyer can handle it?"

I held out a document I had prepared, with the divorce agreement hidden underneath, showing only the signature line.

Julian paused for a second, then signed his name with a flourish without even looking at it.

"Bella was sick the last few days, so I didn't have time. Once she's better, I'll go back with you."

I lowered my gaze to hide the tears welling in my eyes.

"Okay."

As he brushed past me, I smelled the expensive French perfume on him.

It was a scent I could never afford for myself, but his first love’s signature brand.

Once the main gate clanged shut, I walked stiffly to the dining table and carefully folded the signed divorce agreement.

A week ago, Father Michael had called to tell me my father had suffered a brain hemorrhage while teaching and was in critical condition.

I panicked, rushing home to grab Julian as he was heading out the door.

"Can you come home with me? My dad, he's..."

Before I could finish, Isabella's delicate voice called from outside.

"Julian, hurry up! You promised you'd take me shopping on Fifth Avenue."

Hearing her voice, Julian instantly lost his patience. He brushed my hand away and walked out, tossing a single sentence over his shoulder.

"I have something important to do right now. You go ahead. I'll come find you when I'm done."

I waited for seven days.

I waited until after my father was buried, and still, the "done" Julian never came.

All I got were my father's last words, as he held my hand.

"Julian is a good boy. He has to take care of the whole family, so of course he's busy."

"I don't blame him. When you go back, please don't fight with him."

But Dad, Julian wasn't busy with family business. He was busy taking care of Isabella.

Wiping my tears, I washed the dishes on the table and put them away.

The countdown to my departure had begun.

Six days left.