Divorced by Mistake, Claimed by the Billionaire He Hates

Slowly, I was pushed to the edge of collapse. I started fighting back the same way he did. I took a young man under my wing. Maeve Vitale. A quiet-blooded son of the Vitale Family, still finishing his years at the university, the kind of face that turned heads across every room he entered. At first, it was nothing but spite. But he would call me sorella in that gentle voice. He would coax me back from the ledge with patience I had forgotten existed. And when I was at my most helpless, he was the first one through the door. The car accident. I lay in a hospital bed in a private clinic the Vitale family kept off the books, and he sat beside me, eyes rimmed red, staying through every follow-up examination without once being asked. He was clean. Pure. Like a shaft of light that carried no impurity at all. Over time, my heart, torn and riddled with wounds, was mended by him piece by careful piece. I had offered him a house. Money. Whatever I could give. He wanted none of it. He wanted only a name. A place beside me that the world would recognize. "Sorella, divorce him. Try me." He looked at me, his gaze clear and steady, as though his eyes had room for only one person. And in those eyes, the woman reflected back was not the wretched, humiliated version of myself I had come to accept. She was glowing. In that moment, something finally clicked into place. When a thing is broken, you replace it. Even a child understands that. Yet I had wasted years grinding myself down inside this alliance. Everything between Dante Moretti and me had only ever been slow self-destruction. So I said yes. Yes to being with Maeve Vitale. And yes to ending, once and for all, a marriage that lay in ruins around my feet. Dante had barely left the estate when my phone lit up with Maeve's video call. On the screen, he wore a clean white shirt, moving through a kitchen with quiet efficiency. A few strands of dark hair fell across his forehead, and his lashes were long, giving him that look that was both gentle and disarming. "Sorella, is it done? The divorce?" I was older than him. I had lived through things he could only imagine. And still, every time I saw that face, my pulse quickened against my will. I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to stay even. "The agreement is signed. One more month, and he and I have no connection left." He listened, and slowly the corner of his mouth curved upward. His voice dropped low, threaded with a pleasure he could not quite contain. "Since there's no connection anymore, then for this month, sorella, you don't let him touch you." The words were soft, but underneath them ran a possessiveness that left no room for argument. "When the time comes, I'll be checking." I hadn't expected Maeve to say something like that. Heat crept across my cheeks, but I kept my expression flat and scolded him with all the composure I could manage. "Don't talk nonsense." On the other end, he watched me, his gaze carrying an undisguised hunger he reined in a heartbeat later, his tone shifting to something wounded and clinging. "Sorella, the only thing small about me is my age. Everything else… isn't small at all." My chest tightened. I cut him off before the conversation could slip any further, coaxed him with a few gentle words, and finally got him to hang up like a good boy. This young man was everything I could want. Except that he clung to me like a vine. The moment the call ended, I went out and bought a calendar. For the month that followed, I lived by tearing off pages, counting each day on my fingers. From October first to the tenth, Dante did not come back to the compound once. But where he went, who he was with, what he was doing. I knew all of it with perfect clarity. His new woman, Serena Bellucci, was a hostess at one of the Moretti-owned clubs. A girl who had started as an intern of sorts in the family's legitimate front. Every day she would post something on her social media, carefully casual, dropping hints about the two of them. As if she were marking territory. An afternoon spent at a private dining room in the kind of restaurant where the maître d' never wrote down a reservation. An evening at the golf course the family kept for entertaining judges and politicians. Standing on the terrace of a hilltop villa, looking down at the city lights. Sharing a private hot spring at a resort that only took guests with the right last name. Strange, really. With Dante's habits, he never lingered on one woman for long. The ones who came and went before had held his attention for a month at most before he grew bored.

But this Serena Bellucci had already lasted three months, and he still hadn't grown tired of her. Perhaps it was that unusual longevity that gave her the nerve. She stopped playing quiet the way the others had. She even added me on my private line, testing, prodding, in that careful way of hers that looked like nothing and meant everything. I didn't let it bother me. I had already decided to dissolve the alliance. Why waste energy on petty games. Over the next few days, with nothing else to occupy my time, I cleaned the estate from top to bottom. The straight razors I'd chosen for him at a custom shop in Milan. The suits he wore every day, the ones I'd pressed with my own hands and hung in garment bags before each sit-down. The limited-edition Patek Philippe I'd stayed up half the night outbidding three other buyers to secure. It didn't matter what it was worth. If I had given it to him, I boxed it up and threw it out. What I threw out with it was every humiliation this marriage had asked me to swallow, and every piece of my heart I had handed over without holding anything back. I had made up my mind. A clean break from the past. A fresh start. Two more days passed before he finally came back. He stood in the main room of the estate, scanning the shelves and surfaces that were visibly emptier than before, and his brow creased. "Vera, you threw out my things?" I kept turning the pages of the magazine in my lap, didn't look up. "I did." "I bought them. I can throw them away if I want. Is there a problem? Besides, you're never home. No point keeping things that collect dust." He clearly assumed I was still angry about the last incident. Took it for spite, nothing more. He walked over and sat down beside me, his tone carrying that careless, half-hearted reassurance he always reached for. "Didn't we agree a long time ago? We each do what we want outside these walls, and neither of us catches feelings for anyone else. Why are you making an issue of it again?" The same speech. Always the same speech. No matter what he did, he could always find a way to excuse himself. And I, his wife in name, was supposed to absorb every wound he inflicted in silence, as though even voicing a grievance was excessive. But now, I had no interest in tangling with him over things that no longer mattered. I closed the magazine, stood, and headed for the stairs. My voice was cold enough to freeze the air between us. "You're overthinking it. I don't care." He took that for a mask. Thought I was pretending not to feel anything. He was on his feet instantly, catching my hand. Under my gaze, which held nothing but impatience, he reached into his jacket and pulled out an invitation, pressing it into my palm. "Stop being angry. Tomorrow I'll take you to the auction. Whatever catches your eye, bid on it. Relax a little, all right?" My first instinct was to refuse. But when my eyes landed on the Sotheby's crest embossed on the card, I changed my mind. We were getting a dissolution anyway. Spending his money on something that made me happy wasn't a loss. So I nodded. At five o'clock the next afternoon, his car pulled up to the estate gates right on time. I carried my bag downstairs and was reaching for the door handle when I saw a familiar face. Serena Bellucci. She sat in the passenger seat clutching a large bag of snacks and bottled water, settled in as though she belonged there, and smiled at me with that wide, innocent expression of hers. "Signora, I get a little carsick. Would you mind sitting in the back today?" The flash of triumph in her eyes didn't escape me. I lowered my gaze, and in my peripheral vision I caught the small ornament mounted on the dashboard. A custom Hello Kitty figurine. The tiny bow on its head bore a line of cursive lettering. Princess Serena's seat. I didn't speak. I didn't step aside. Dante seemed to sense the shift in my mood. Once again, that low, impatient coaxing. "Serena's never been to an auction. I'm just showing her how the other half lives. She's delicate, Vera. Let her have the seat." Let her? Of course I could.

I'd already decided I didn't want the man himself. A seat in a car was nothing worth fighting over. I let out a quiet laugh, said nothing, and slid into the back. The whole drive, Serena Bellucci was like a bird that never tired of singing. She picked at pastries and little sweets from a gold-foil box, scooping bites onto a spoon she'd already used and lifting them to Dante's lips. She made no effort to hide the intimacy. He made no effort to refuse it. They talked about everything and nothing, her every teasing pout and playful word earning the same reward: a slow, indulgent curve at the corner of his mouth. From start to finish, I didn't spare either of them so much as a glance. I cracked the window instead and watched the October light drain out of the city. The wind that slipped through carried the first real chill of autumn, thin and clean, tasting faintly of the river that marked the eastern edge of Moretti territory. When the car stopped and we had barely walked a few paces from the curb, Serena wrinkled her brow and whimpered that her heels were cutting into her feet. Dante laughed at her for being delicate, but he didn't hesitate. He steered her into the nearest high-end boutique without a backward glance, the two bodyguards trailing them inside like shadows. He crouched in front of her himself, pair after pair, checking the flex of each sole with careful fingers, adjusting the strap across her ankle. Every motion deliberate. Gentle. I stood to the side and watched, and the memory surfaced before I could stop it. Two weeks ago. A fever so high my thoughts swam and my skin felt like it had been held over an open flame. All I'd asked for was a glass of water. He hadn't even lifted his head. His refusal had been flat, cold, final. So this was how wide the distance between one person and another could be. The one held close to the heart was a princess, naturally. Treatment was never equal. It never had been. But once, I had been the one cupped in his palms like something precious. Back then I'd tested him on purpose, told him that if he could bring me the red-bean cakes from the old bakery on the south side, I'd consider being with him. The south side was half a city away from my family's house, and that night a blizzard had buried the streets. Anyone could see it was an impossible demand. He said nothing. He took his keys and walked out the door. Five hours. When he came back, he pulled a paper-wrapped box from inside his coat, still warm against his chest, and held it out to me. His eyes were completely serious. Afterward, I asked myself a thousand times: if what he felt then was real, how could it change so fast? Now I understood. He hadn't changed. I simply hadn't seen clearly before. Hadn't seen the restless nature beneath the devotion, hadn't seen what kind of man he truly was. A man like that never stops for anyone. I laughed softly under my breath, tucked the embossed invitation card tighter in my hand, and walked into the auction hall ahead of them. The first lot was already under the hammer by the time Dante strolled in with Serena on his arm. Two of his men peeled off to stand along the far wall, jackets buttoned, hands visible but close to the hip. The auction ran alongside a formal dinner. The tables gleamed with tiered trays of delicate pastries and platters of fat, seasonal crab still glistening from the steam. The moment Serena sat down, her eyes locked on the crab. She leaned into Dante, tugging at his sleeve, saying she wanted it now. He gave a helpless little smile, smoothed her skirt where it had bunched against the chair, waved away the server who stepped forward, and picked up the tools himself. He cracked each shell with practiced hands, easing the meat and the golden roe free piece by piece, patient as a man disarming something fragile. When he was done, he set the plate in front of her. Serena looked up at him, her eyes bright with worship and need. I only watched in silence. After the crab, she pointed idly at the stage, at a suite of emerald jewelry displayed under halogen light. Dante didn't hesitate. His hand went up, paddle rising in a single clean motion. "Paddle seventeen bids three hundred million." The auctioneer's voice echoed across the vaulted ceiling. The room went still. Then came the wave of sharp indrawn breaths, rippling table to table. No one dared counter. The gavel fell. Soon the evening broke for intermission. Men and women began circulating with glasses in hand, drifting toward our table the way lesser families always drifted toward power, looking for a word, a nod, an opening. They watched how Dante attended to Serena, how his hand rested at the small of her back, how he leaned to hear her whisper. They read the signals the way people in this world always did, and drew the obvious conclusion. One after another, they addressed her as "Mrs. Moretti," as "Signora," their voices warm with deference. Dante's gaze lifted then. Slowly. His thumb dragged once across the face of his signet ring before his eyes found mine, cool and unhurried. "You have the wrong woman," he said. His voice carried just far enough. "That one is my wife."

The air froze solid. The smiles on their faces locked in place, and they scrambled to correct themselves, voices tripping over awkward apologies. I said nothing. I did not acknowledge the glances thrown my way, some startled, some pitying. They hadn't been wrong, really. Soon enough, I wouldn't be Signora Moretti at all. With the way Dante lavished his attention on Serena Bellucci now, the ink on our dissolution papers would barely be dry before he brought her into the house for good. Once the intermission ended, the lots shifted to antiques. I had no interest. I bid on a few of the most expensive pieces without looking twice, then rose from my seat and left. I had just reached the elevator bank when a sugary voice drifted up behind me. "Signora, do you have a moment to talk?" I had barely stopped, hadn't even finished turning around, when I saw Serena raise her hand. The next second. A sharp crack. A full, open-handed slap landed across my face. For one instant my mind went completely blank. She had put everything she had behind it. Heat flared across my cheek in a bright, stinging wave, my ears rang, and the corridor tilted. I pressed my hand to my face on instinct, nearly unable to react. Then awareness flooded back, and the rage surged. "Serena, what the hell are you doing!" I raised my hand to strike back. But before the blow could land, a hand caught mine. Dante. He seized my wrist, grip so tight my fingers went numb. His tone carried open displeasure. "Vera, Serena didn't do anything to you. Why would you hit her?" I stared at him for one stunned beat, then wrenched my hand free, my voice shaking beyond my control. "I hit her? Dante, ask anyone standing here who struck first!" The words had barely left my mouth before Serena's eyes turned red, tears pooling fast, her entire expression crumpling into wounded innocence. Her voice came out soft and trembling. "Dante, you're the one who said I was too timid, that I should find a chance to toughen up. I thought about it for so long, and I decided that slapping the Don's wife in public would be the hardest thing I could do. Otherwise I'd never find the nerve." Her voice grew smaller and more pitiful with every word. "But the Signora just now was so fierce. She really frightened me…" Tears fell one after another, like beads sliding off a broken string. When she finished, Dante frowned. "Toughening up doesn't mean putting your hands on someone." Especially not on me. But the reproach in his voice was so light it carried almost no weight at all. Serena sniffled and cried harder. "I'm sorry, I was stupid. You told me the Signora had a gentle temper. I thought even if I hit her, she wouldn't get angry. I didn't expect…" She trailed off, voice hitching until it barely sounded human. Dante's expression softened instantly. The tenderness took over completely. He forgot any thought of blame, wiping her tears with his thumb, murmuring to her in a low voice. "Alright, alright, no one's blaming you. Stop crying. Be good." I stood there, watching, and felt my chest go cold in slow, spreading waves. Rage and pain surged together. I couldn't hold it in any longer. "Dante, I'm the one who was hit. What gives you the right to forgive her on my behalf? And Serena, what innocent act are you putting on? Who in the world decides to slap someone as a way to build courage!" My voice climbed despite every effort to keep it level. Serena flinched at my tone, crying so hard she could barely breathe, looking as if she might faint on the spot. Dante's sympathy was total now. He looked at me, and something harder settled behind his eyes. Impatience. His voice came out careless, dismissive. "She's a girl. One slap. How much strength could she possibly have? Do you really need to make this much of it? She already feels so guilty she's about to cry herself unconscious. Vera, enough."

He said nothing else. He swept Serena Bellucci up in his arms and turned his back on me, carrying her out of the room without a second glance. I stood where I was. My whole body felt frozen. In that moment, I truly could not believe those words had come out of his mouth. The cold crept up from somewhere deep inside my chest, spreading outward as though I had fallen into a pit of ice. How I made it back to the estate, I couldn't say. The drive was a blur. The whole way, I held everything in, jaw clenched, refusing to let a single tear fall. By the time I walked through the doors, my eyes were swollen red beyond hiding. Marta saw the mark on my face and went pale. She rushed over, the kitchen staff trailing behind her, all of them talking over one another. Who did this? Was it an outsider? They wanted to call Dante, bring him home, make him answer for it. "Don't." I stopped them quietly. Every wound I carried, he had put there himself. I sat by the window in the upstairs room, pressing a cloth of crushed ice to my cheek for a full hour before the swelling finally began to ease. Through the glass, the compound lights cut sharp lines across the courtyard. Two soldiers smoked by the gate, unaware of anything. My phone buzzed. A message from Serena Bellucci. "Signora, did you make it home? I'm already at the hospital. Dante spoils me too much. I only fainted for a second and he reserved the entire VIP floor, brought in over a dozen specialists just to examine me." "Oh, by the way, how's your face? I'm so sorry I didn't hold back. It must really hurt. Would you like to come to the hospital? I'll be generous and share one of my doctors with you. Wouldn't want you to end up scarred." I read it once. Then I forwarded the message directly to Dante. He didn't reply until after midnight. "Serena meant well." I stared at those three words, and I couldn't help it. I laughed. I kept laughing, and then the tears came down. The next second, I sent him a voice message. "You're so eager to protect her? Then marry her. Bring her home right now. I'll step aside. I'll even wish you both a hundred years of happiness." This time, he replied fast. "Vera, why do you keep saying things you don't mean? I've told you so many times — my wife will only ever be you. Girls like her are nothing. Just entertainment. Don't read so much into it. Get some rest. I'll come home tomorrow and spend the day with you." I read the message, and all I felt was a vast, hollow exhaustion. Like throwing a punch into cotton. No impact. No sound. Nothing coming back. I let out a quiet, bitter laugh, too tired to trade another word with him over things that meant nothing, and turned off my phone. The next day. After lunch, I drove to the old Moretti estate. I brought the imperial jade set that Donna Winslow had given me on my wedding day. The necklace, the earrings, the bracelet. Heirloom pieces, supposedly passed through the family for generations. Sacred things. My timing was poor. Don Winslow and Donna Winslow had left for Bali at dawn. The estate steward told me they wouldn't return for a month. I said nothing more. I left the velvet case with the steward, turned, and walked out. My thumb pressed the worn edge of my grandmother's pocket watch as I crossed the gravel drive. By the time I reached the car, my hand was steady. After leaving the old estate, I went to a spa in the city. Afterward, I stopped at a boutique and bought over a dozen pairs of earrings that caught my eye. When I finally returned home, the lights in the main room were already on. Dante sat on the leather sofa. The table in front of him was covered in gift boxes, stacked neatly, ribbons and branded tissue spilling from their edges. He heard me come in. Set his phone down. Looked up. "The steward says you returned the heirloom set?" "I did." He exhaled slowly. Rose from the couch and came to sit beside me. "Still angry? Come on. Don't be like this. I brought all of these for you." He gestured at the boxes. "Just forgive me this once. Alright?" I looked at him, and something in me almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity. In his mind, returning the heirlooms was a tantrum. A mood. A wife throwing a fit because she needed more attention. Not a woman who no longer wanted a single thread connecting her to him. He was so certain. So impossibly certain that I would never leave. That certainty was why he dared do whatever he pleased. Why he could propose that they each "have their own fun" as though it were reasonable. Why he could parade other women in front of me, again and again, and expect me to still be sitting here when he came home. I didn't answer. I glanced at the familiar logos stamped across the gift boxes, and something cold and mocking flickered behind my eyes. "What I want," I said, "can only ever be one of a kind."

He went still for a moment. He probably hadn't expected me to know he'd bought the same things for Serena Bellucci. He recovered quickly. "Vera, you've got it wrong. I genuinely wanted to make things right, so I had Serena help me pick everything out. When I saw she liked them too, I just grabbed a second set. Don't get upset over something this small, all right?" Small. I was so tired of that word. I reached out and swept the gift boxes off the table in one motion. "The gifts can come in multiples. So does your love come in multiples too?" My voice shook, and I couldn't stop it. "Dante Moretti, the thing I regret most right now is…" My eyes burned red. The rest of the words wouldn't come. But he already understood. His expression shifted. He stood immediately and closed his hand around my wrist. "Vera, you have to believe me. You're the only one in my heart. Otherwise I never would have married you. Give me a few more years. Once I've gotten it out of my system, I'll come back to you. I promise." I looked at him, and all at once the exhaustion hit me like a wall. Round and round. Always the same hollow, counterfeit promises. I had no desire to hear another word. I pulled my hand free. My voice came out flat. Not a single ripple. "Then we'll wait." He studied my face as it settled back into calm. He must have thought I'd finally stopped being angry, because his own expression softened a few degrees. He bent down and gathered the scattered bags from the floor, one by one, and held them out to me. I knew he hadn't understood what I meant. But I didn't care enough to explain. I took the bags and turned for the stairs. What I was waiting for had never been the day he came to his senses. What I was waiting for was the end of the thirty-day dissolution period. My birthday was coming soon. Don Winslow and Donna Winslow were abroad, but they still remembered. They'd had a jeweled tiara flown in from Europe, something worth a small fortune. The delivery address was the Moretti family's main office at the shipping company headquarters downtown. When I got the message, my first instinct was to tell them I'd already signed the dissolution papers with Dante. But they were still traveling, still enjoying themselves, and I didn't want to ruin that. So I held it in. I drove to Moretti headquarters. The birthday gift was in Dante's office. He was in a sit-down with his captains, so I went in alone. But the moment I pushed the door open, I saw that Serena Bellucci had already torn away the outer wrapping. That dazzling tiara was sitting on her head. When she saw me, a flash of panic crossed her face. Then the mask dropped into place: wide eyes, trembling chin, the frightened little creature she played so well. "Signora, I didn't expect you…" I had no patience for her performance. I walked straight to her and reached for the tiara. "I'm here to collect what's mine." Something bitter flickered behind Serena's eyes. Jealousy. Resentment. Her fingers tightened around the tiara and would not let go. She wanted it that badly? I was about to release my grip when I saw her deliberately press her finger into one of the sharp points at the crown's peak. A bead of bright red blood welled up from her fingertip. The next second she folded onto the leather sofa, whimpering softly, tears already forming. "Signora, I just thought it was beautiful. I only wanted to admire it for a moment. Why would you do this to me?" Before I could react, a force slammed into me from behind. I was shoved hard. My whole body crashed into the edge of the low table. My forehead struck the corner with a crack, and the pain spread instantly, hot blood seeping down from my temple. My face went white. I sucked in a sharp breath and looked up at Dante, who had just come through the door. He didn't look at me. He was already holding Serena's injured hand, disinfecting it with careful, precise movements, pressing a bandage over the tiny cut. The tenderness in his eyes was something he couldn't hide even if he tried. And in that moment, I finally understood what scene Serena had just staged. My body trembling, I pushed myself upright. I bent down and picked up the blood-stained tiara. Then I held it out in front of Serena. Dante must have thought I was rubbing it in. Anger surfaced in his gaze immediately. He opened his mouth, but I spoke first. "You like it? Then it's yours. Take it." The reaction caught them both off guard. Serena froze. She forgot to squeeze out the next tear. Dante's brow knotted tight, as if he couldn't begin to understand what I was thinking. "That's from my parents. For you." For me? No. It was for the Moretti family's wife. And very soon, I wouldn't be the Moretti family's wife anymore. I set the tiara down. My tone was light. Detached. "I don't keep things that have been bled on. Bad luck. She can have it." I didn't look back at either of them. I walked out of the office. Behind me, Dante's gaze stayed fixed on my back. I could feel it. His brow still furrowed, tight as a knot. After we married, I'd had two habits everyone in our circles knew about. One was buying property. The other was collecting jewelry. So every time I got angry, he'd use one or both to bring me around. Something like that tiara, a collector's piece worth a fortune, he probably never imagined I would give it away without blinking. On the night of my birthday, Dante still didn't come home. At the party, everyone kept asking where he was, whether he'd slipped away to prepare some grand surprise. After all, every year before this one, he had stayed at my side the entire night without stepping away once. But I didn't care where he was. I only wanted to enjoy this birthday. After tonight, I would be twenty-seven. I was about to step into a completely new life. So why waste another thought on people and things that belonged to the old one? I didn't answer their questions. I picked up a bottle of champagne, gave it a slow shake, and popped it open the way you'd set off fireworks. The wine erupted in a golden arc. I lifted the bottle, laughing. "Happy birthday to me."