I gave my husband everything—my love, my loyalty, my future. But to him, I was just a fool to be used, a wife to be discarded. The night he threw me out in the rain, pregnant and broken, his mistress smirked as the door slammed shut. And when my baby died from the cruelty of their betrayal, I made a vow over that tiny coffin: I would bury them both beside my child. Then I met Rolin McCarty—the most dangerous man in the country. Ruthless. Powerful. Who is willing to help me burn my husband’s world to the ground. Alex thought he broke me. But he only awakened something worse. And now? Now, he’ll wish he’d killed me when he had the chance.
ดูเพิ่มเติมIslaI pulled on a pair of black pants—sleek, tailored—then the silver silk top. Yeah, silver again. At this point, it was basically my signature. Was it even a real color? Didn’t matter. It caught the light, made my skin glow, and gave me that don’t mess with me edge. Good enough. A few silver hoops, a thin bracelet, and my Louboutins clicked into place like armor locking into position. The mirror didn’t sugarcoat it—I looked expensive.Gran-Gran whistled when I stepped out, like I was some K-drama lead strutting off a runway. “Gran-Gran,” I groaned, my face heating up. “Seriously?” She cackled—the kind of laugh that meant trouble—and hooked her arm through mine. I could already feel the chaos brewing. Her cane tapped against the pavement as we walked, sharp and unyielding, just like her. The car was waiting. I helped her in, and with a quiet nod from the driver, we were off. The McCatty mall was all polished floors and overpriced serenity, the kind of place where the air
Isla Carlotta's gentle tap snapped me out of it. "Drew your bath, mi hija," she murmured, that warm smile of hers smoothing my edges. I managed a weak smile back. "Thanks." My body moved toward the bathroom on autopilot while my brain stayed stuck on one name: Abigail. The same Abigail from his past. The one his father kept shoving into his life. The hot bath did nothing to wash away the acid churning in my gut. I scrubbed my skin raw anyway. When I stepped out, Rolin was waiting like a damn statue in our room. "Same Abigail?" I asked, toweling my hair. "The one you—" "Yeah." His jaw flexed. "I'll handle it." "Mm." I yanked a sweater over my head. "Where's Gran?" "Carlotta's entertaining her in the lounge." The intercom buzzed before I could respond. Rolin answered, then turned with that infuriating calm. "They're here." My stomach dropped. And there she was. Abigail strutted in like she owned the place, wrapped in a red dress that left zero to the imaginati
Isla Sleep didn't come easy that night. Rolin took his time in the bathroom, giving me space to curl up on my side and fake sleep. The lights dimmed. Water ran. Then the soft click of the door. I felt more than heard his quiet chuckle—that knowing sound that said he wasn't fooled. The mattress dipped as he slid in behind me. I stiffened. Didn't matter. His arm slipped around my waist, pulling me back against his bare chest like I was something precious. Something worth holding gently. I stopped breathing. His nose brushed my damp hair. "You smell like milk and almonds," he murmured. My stomach did something complicated. What even was this feeling? Before I could figure it out, exhaustion dragged me under. — The nightmare hit like a sucker punch. Concrete biting my knees. Shadows with glowing eyes. Hands everywhere, tearing at my clothes. My screams bouncing back at me, useless. Then the hospital. White walls. That nurse's pitying face. "The baby didn't make it." The words
Isla The party died a quick death after that. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Champagne glasses sat abandoned. Rolin's fingers slid between mine, guiding me through the gawking crowd like I might shatter if he moved too fast. Lucia's heels clicked behind us, eager as a puppy who'd just chewed up the curtains. "Chairman McCatty," he purred, "how'd I do?" Rolin gave a stiff nod, already turning away, when Lucia caught my wrist. "You," he said, eyes lighting up. "That bag was made for someone like you." I offered a tight smile. Lucia's gaze lingered too long, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "My wife," Rolin bit out, sharp as a gunshot. Lucia's mouth fell open. Rolin didn't stick around for the fallout. He bundled me into the car with that old-world courtesy of his, slamming the door like a period at the end of a sentence. The ride home was the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. Even the driver kept checking the rearview mirror like he was debatin
Isla We stepped out of the room, the muffled chaos growing louder with every stride toward the ballroom. Voices buzzed like angry wasps. Whispers darted through the air, sharp and curious. As we pushed closer, my eyes caught them—Alex and Jane—standing dead center like two badly written plot twists. Jane clutched one of those masquerade masks-on-a-stick, more for flair than function, and in her other hand… a silver glass purse. Identical to mine. My brow lifted instinctively. Rolin kept walking, and I followed, letting the noise wash over me in pieces. “She copied the woman that came in with Chairman McCatty!” “That bag—look at it. Exactly the same.” “It’s fake. Has to be. That purse is exclusive. The designer LM said she only made one and it was for a special client, and it’s definitely not *Miss sleep with a married man.*” The words rolled out of the mouth of Loretta Monroe—socialite, certified gossip goblin, and known terror in luxury circles. She was pointing at Jane like
ROLINWe moved together on the dance floor, but this wasn't romance. Wasn't war either. That dangerous middle ground where we always seemed to land - close enough to draw blood, too far to ever really touch.The ghost of our last fight still hung between us. I could almost taste the whiskey from when I'd thrown my glass against the wall when she left. But we'd always been better at silence than apologies.Her lips brushed my jaw. "Need air." Like I wasn't already choking on whatever this was between us.I should've held on tighter. Didn't. My fingers trailed after hers for one stolen second - long enough to memorize the way her hand fit against mine. Then she was walking away, that silver dress clinging to every curve, the mask making her a stranger. I watched. Always watched when she wasn't looking. She still moved like she had back on base - all coiled violence and fuck-you grace. That walk that made men think "prey" right before she put a bullet between their eyes. Some t
Isla Kali handed me the gear bag, but her fingers didn’t let go right away. They hovered over mine a beat too long—warm, deliberate, like she was trying to say something without moving her lips. The air turned thick in an instant. Her palm brushed the back of my hand, feather-light, but it set my nerves on edge. I blinked, forced a smile, and did what I do best—shattered the moment with a question sharp enough to slice through the tension. “How’s your girlfriend?” I asked, casually—too casually. She hesitated, jaw ticking. “We broke up.” I raised an eyebrow. “That fast?” “It wasn’t serious,” she muttered, brushing it off like lint on her sleeve. “We ended things on good terms.” Sure… I nodded slowly, the weight of her stare still on my skin. “Alright.” And with that, I walked out, the silence between us still echoing in my chest. When I got home, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The cottage’s quiet wrapped around me like an old friend. I lock
Isla The second I opened that encrypted file, my screen exploded with intel. Names, dates, locations - but not a single damn photo. Just one name staring back at me like a death warrant: Don Salvatore Mancini. AKA "Il Serpente." The fucking Snake. I leaned in closer. No pictures. Ever. The guy was a ghost. Every photographer who tried ended up missing. Cameras malfunctioned around him. Zero digital footprint. The man didn't exist - except he very much did. Half Italian, half Spanish. Mom was some legendary Spanish beauty. Dad? An Italian mobster who mysteriously vanished when Salvatore took over. Real original story there. Kept scrolling. 200+ confirmed kills (probably triple that). Ran the biggest cartel this side of the equator. Dudes worshipped him like a god. Women literally fought to have his babies. Rivals? They didn't stay rivals long. Then - ping. Kali. "Office tomorrow. Gear ready. Guns waiting." I sent back a simple "k" and tossed the la
Isla I was out the door before sunrise. No dramatic exit. No tearful note. Just me, a duffel bag, and the quiet click of the penthouse door locking behind me. Rolin would wake up to cold sheets and an emptier closet. Good. Let him wonder. The Uber smelled like pine air freshener and bad decisions. I watched skyscrapers dissolve into scrubland through the window, my reflection ghostly in the glass. Three hours later, the car crunched onto the gravel driveway of my safehouse—a tiny white cottage the world had forgotten. Maria, my housekeeper, nearly dropped her mop when I walked in. "Dios mío! You look like hell." I managed a real smile for the first time in weeks. Her familiar scolding was a balm. She bullied me into the shower, then force-fed me arroz con pollo while muttering in Spanish about "skinny rich girls." By sunset, she was gone, leaving me alone with the kind of silence that doesn't demand anything from you. I didn't sit with it long. The lapto
Isla *BRAAAP-BOOM* The city pulses with celebration—fireworks cracking overhead, music bleeding through the frosty air, laughter spilling from the open doors of the Blackwood Hotel. I tighten the silk wrap around my shoulders, my pulse hammering as I step inside. Tonight was supposed to be different. A fresh start. Alex had been distant for months, but I’d chalked it up to stress. That’s why I’d spent hours getting ready—wearing the emerald dress he’d once called stunning, curling my hair the way he used to tug at it in bed. I still believed in us. God, I was an idiot. I spot him instantly. He’s at the center of the room, flawless in his tuxedo, champagne flute dangling from his fingers like he hasn’t a care in the world. Then I see her. Jane. She’s pressed against him, her blood-red dress leaving nothing to the imagination. Her nails drag down his lapel, her lips curved in a smirk. My breath stalls. Alex tilts his h...
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