The Wife the Don Never Deserved
On every anniversary, my husband, Julian, would meticulously plan a public humiliation for me.
For our ten-year "alliance" anniversary dinner, he strode into the Caldwell family's ballroom, in front of all of Chicago's elite and mob bosses. On his arm was his latest flame, Cassidy.
"Scarlett, she's missing something on her hand. Take off that ring."
It was the emerald ring his grandmother had passed down, the one I received when I married him. The symbol of the Caldwell family matriarch.
Then, as if that wasn't cruel enough: "And the earrings. She likes the whole set."
I clutched the fabric at my neckline, a desperate attempt to hold on to my last shred of dignity. He didn't care. He seized my wrist. "Stop pretending. Your father sold you to me to pay off his gambling debts, remember? That desperate look in your eyes... I remember it well."
Everyone was staring, waiting for me to break.
So I did the only thing I could.
"Let's separate."
Again.
Julian just sneered, then threw a stack of photos onto the table—photos of my gambling-addicted father, beaten half to death and curled up in some back alley.
"You say that every year, but you always end up back in my bed. Do you think your deadbeat father will see another sunrise if these photos become his obituary? Or would you prefer a trip to the bottom of Lake Michigan for him?"