I walked into the law office with my divorce papers clutched in my hand. Four years. Four years as Sophia Moretti, wife of James Moretti, heir to the most powerful mafia family in the city. 

Today, it ended.

The lawyer didn’t even look up when I walked in.

“I’d like to file for divorce,” I said, placing the papers on his desk.

He finally glanced at me—messy ponytail, faded jeans, my backpack still slung over one shoulder. His expression turned stern. “Young lady, divorce isn’t something you file on a whim.”

I understood why he didn’t take me seriously. I looked like a college student who had wandered into the wrong office, not someone who had been married for four years.

But I was prepared.

“Just stamp the papers,” I said calmly. “I’ll get my husband’s signature.”

The Moretti estate was too quiet when I returned. The guards at the gate didn’t even blink as I passed—just another invisible fixture in James’ world.

I headed straight for James’ study. The door was slightly open, and I could hear laughter inside.

Then I smelled it.

Truffles.

James always said he hated strong smells in the house. No garlic, no fish, nothing that lingered. But now, the air was thick with the scent of expensive white truffles, the kind you only get if you are the right person.

I pushed the door open.

There he was. James Moretti, my husband, sitting at his desk, relaxed in a way I’d never seen with me. And beside him was Vicky Rossi, his childhood best friend, back in the city this year after her divorce.

She was feeding him a piece of bread covered in truffles, her fingers lingering just a second too long.

Then James saw me. His smile disappeared.

“Sophia,” he said, voice cool. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”