The Don’s Throwaway Wife Chapter 02

The Don’s Throwaway Wife Chapter 02

Dante pressed himself flush against my back, warm breath fanning over my shoulder.

“I knew that whole act was fake. If you truly didn’t care, you wouldn’t be crying.”

I silenced my phone.

He twisted my face toward him, wiping the tears off my skin with his mouth.

“Do you see how humiliating you just made me look?”

The dancer’s voice echoed down the hall, calling his name.

Hunger flickered in his eyes.

“Why don’t the three of us spend the night together?”

My body went rigid.

He clicked his tongue in irritation. “Elara, being my wife isn’t the same as being a Moretti princess. You need to learn how to share.”

“Be good for me, and maybe next year I’ll bring you home to meet my folks.”

I watched him wrap an arm around her waist and walk out with her.

But Dante… there wouldn’t be a next year.

We met freshman year at Columbia University.

For four years, we chased each other across lecture halls and dorm parties. Girls swarmed him nonstop—sliding love notes into his textbooks, waiting for him outside classrooms.

He never turned any of them down, only laughed and said he loved watching me burn with jealousy over him.

By graduation, jealousy had hollowed me out completely.

I asked him to marry me.

He lit a cigarette before answering. “Elara, I’m not ready to settle down. But if it’s you, I’ll walk down the aisle. I won’t stop seeing other women, though.”

I thought he was joking.

Six days later, I caught him with another woman.

He’d meant every word.

I lost my mind, stormed into their apartment, and destroyed every piece of furniture inside. The woman ended up hospitalized, and the scandal hit every local newspaper.

That’s when Dante started the coin draw game.

Whoever pulled the gold coin got to spend Christmas with him.

It was nothing but a ploy to humiliate me.

Luca made a bet with me: I wouldn’t last five years.

I’d been convinced Dante would change. I thought I’d win.

The first year, the winner was a massage parlor girl.

He took her to the family estate up in the Catskills, leaving me stranded in the snow until my hands split open and bled. I walked all night to make it back to the city.

The second year, a waitress from a dive bar on the Lower East Side stood front and center in the family Christmas photo. I sat alone in our apartment, eating cold vegetable soup straight from the pot.

Third year. Fourth year.

Now the fifth.

Dante had never changed, not even a little.

I’d had enough.

I texted Luca back.

“Get here fast. I can’t stand another minute in Brooklyn.”