Chapter 1

I was finishing a handmade anniversary gift for my husband, Dominic, when my second-in-command brought me our son Marco's drawing titled My Family.

In the center, Dominic and a brown-haired woman kissed Marco's cheeks.

At the edge stood a blond woman like me, labeled Fake Mommy.

The gift slipped from my hands.

I ran to Marco's room and heard him bragging to a classmate.

"You only have one mom, but I have two. The fake mom at home takes care of me and Daddy—she's like an unpaid babysitter."

"My real mom is far away doing important things. She's the one my dad and I really love."

I clutched the drawing, my fingers shaking.

Dominic appeared behind me. The moment he saw the drawing, he tried to rip it from my hands.

"Marco's just messing around. Maybe he drew one of his teachers."

I didn't let go. Dominic's reaction told me Marco might actually be telling the truth.

I was the fake mommy—then who was the real one, and where was the child I'd actually given birth to?

...

"Serena? What are you spacing out about?" Dominic waved a hand in front of my face. "It's our tenth anniversary. What did you get me?"

I looked at him in silence, then reached into my bag and pulled out the velvet box I'd been carrying all day.

He couldn't wait to lift the lid. Inside lay the Beretta I'd prepared for him myself—mother-of-pearl grip, engraved with his initials. In our world, a weapon meant trust. It meant entrusting your very life to another person.

"God, Serena. It's beautiful." He pulled me into his arms and kissed my cheek. "Lock it in the safe for me, would you?"

I took the gun back. The cold metal sat heavy in my palm.

I had never forgotten a single anniversary or birthday. I always chose something for him.

He had never once done the same for me.

I had always told myself that was just the kind of man he was: someone who expressed love through presence rather than ceremony.

But then I remembered what Marco had said.

"Dad loves giving Real Mommy presents. He says picking out a gift for the person you love is more important than the gift itself."

A child's innocent chatter. But each word dragged across my chest like a dull blade.

So it wasn't that he didn't know how to show love.

It was that his love had never been meant for me.

"Dominic."

My voice came out strained. I held his gaze, giving him one final chance to tell me the truth.

"I'm going to ask you once. Is there anything you're keeping from me?"

His body stiffened for just a fraction of a second. Then he turned, his expression shifting to impatience.

"Serena, are you really questioning my loyalty over a child's drawing?"

"The kid scribbled something on a piece of paper, and you're turning it into an accusation?"

I opened my mouth to say more, but he had already walked away, disappearing into the bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

I watched his retreating back and felt, for the first time in ten years, just how vast the distance between us truly was.

Years of protecting his pride had made Dominic forget who I was. I was Don Enzo Valentini's only daughter, the woman he had publicly named as his successor. Dominic had married into our power. He had never owned it.

That night, Dominic fell asleep quickly.

I slipped out of bed and padded barefoot toward his study.

In ten years, I had never once set foot inside that room uninvited—only because he had once said he wanted a space where he could handle his own affairs alone.

But tonight, I pushed the door open.

The study was spare enough to take in at a glance.

I walked straight toward the safe—then stopped short at the sight of a framed photograph on the desk.

It was a portrait of the three of us. Our family.

A study I had never set foot in—and yet a family photo sat on the desk.

Was I imagining things after all?

Marco was just a child. It was nothing but a few careless words.

I picked up the frame, my fingertips brushing lightly over the man's face in the photograph.

And then, the backing of the frame suddenly came loose. My heart plummeted. Before I could react, my hands had already pried the frame open.

A photograph slid out from inside. It showed the same man—but the woman was different. She had long brown hair, the same color as the hair in Marco's drawing.

With trembling hands, I turned the photograph over. It was Dominic's handwriting—unmistakably his:

Natalia—no matter whose ring sits on my finger, my heart will always belong to you.

The date was the day before our wedding.