Her Escape from the Don

I've signed five blood-bound annulment contracts with my mafia don husband.

Each and every time, he fed me the same line: "When this is over, we'll tie the knot again."

But every single one of those "things" was for the same woman: Seraphina Moretti.
We ended our marital bond for the first time, and I sobbed, begging him to tell me if his love for me had ever been real.

He clamped his hold on my jaw hard enough to whiten his knuckles, enunciating every word coldly: "Elara, that doesn't matter."

When the second annulment rolled around, I was mocked openly at the family gala, labelled a discarded floozy for all the clan to see. I locked myself away in the ensuite bathroom and sliced open my wrists; blood trickled along the tile grout, pooling across the floor like a crimson stream.

My best mate Talia tracked me down to find me trembling. It wasn't the wound's ache making me shake, though—Killian was somewhere on the estate that very night, yet he never bothered to pop by and check on me once.

By the third split, I'd taught myself never to shed a tear in his presence.

On the fourth occasion, I even took it upon myself to ask him flat-out: "What sham do you need me to play along with now?"

He froze for the longest moment, said nothing at all in the end, just curled his hands into tight fists and spun his back on me.

Now we're here for the fifth annulment.

He's fool enough to think he only needs to click his fingers and I'll trot back to remarry him just as I've done all the previous times. What he did not know is this:

This time, I'm disappearing from his life for good.