Pretending to Be Dead: The Only Way to Divorce a Monster

Ever since the day Roman pressed a gun to my head and condemned me as his parents' murderer, I became the most lowly prisoner in this estate.

He didn't kill me. Instead, he kept me in line using my dying mother's medical bills and my adopted sister, Callie, as leverage.

For three years, he paraded various women into the master bedroom, leaving me to change their tangled sheets; he ground my dignity into the dirt in front of his men, and I swallowed the humiliation in silence.

Until the day he wrapped his arm around a pregnant Callie, flaunting her in my face.

I finally broke down, falling to my knees at his feet:

"My mother is dying, and Callie is the only family I have left. I'm begging you—direct all your cruelty at me. Just let her go."

Roman merely scoffed. Twisting his hand into my hair, he dragged me all the way into the great hall.

There, my "terminally ill" mother stood holding a glass of expensive red wine, her face flushed and glowing with health as she smilingly stroked Callie's slightly rounded belly.

"Look—it was all a lie." Roman stared at me like I was trash. "Who told you to be so stubborn and refuse to confess? I dropped some spare change, and your mother willingly faked her illness for three years. And your sweet little sister? She calls me her husband in my bed every single day."

A brutal chill pierced my bones. I couldn't believe that the very blood relatives I had sacrificed my life to protect were the leeches draining me dry.

Roman slammed a Divorce Agreement onto the coffee table. Under the asset division column was an utterly humiliating number: $1.

"Callie is pregnant with the family's first-born heir. Be a good girl and sign it—this one dollar is your severance pay."

He was so absolutely certain that I would go completely insane at the sight of this pathetic dollar.

He assumed that even with a gun to my head, I would bawl and cling desperately to my title as the Don's wife.

But after a brief, dead silence, I signed my name.

Then, I picked up that one-dollar coin.

"You're right. Our last ten years together are worth exactly one dollar."

From this moment on, whether it was my bloodsucking family or the man I had loved for a decade...

We were completely, entirely done.

......

My gaze landed back on my mother's flushed, healthy face.

For three years, to pay for her treatments, I had knelt at Roman's feet. I had endured his humiliation, endured the women he paraded around, and endured having my self-respect dragged through the mud.

"Your uremia... it's all fake." My voice was so eerily calm that it felt foreign even to my own ears.

My mother paused for a second, then scoffed as if it didn't matter. "If I hadn't faked being sick, would you have obediently stayed by Roman's side? Roman is the Don now. Whatever slips through his fingers is enough to keep us fed for a lifetime. Callie is younger, she's more sensible, and she can give Roman a child. What use are you, a barren hen, taking up the Don's rightful wife's seat?"

A cruel glint flickered in Roman's deep blue eyes. He had been observing my reaction closely, like a high-and-mighty hunter anticipating his prey to shatter, scream, and drop to the floor begging through bitter tears.

He knew me too well. He knew my mother was my only weakness, and that I had tirelessly protected Callie since we were children. He had personally orchestrated this betrayal solely to watch me suffer a fate worse than death.

Callie let out a sickly-sweet giggle. "I'm so sorry, dear sister. The doctor confirmed I'm pregnant, and Roman dotes on me too much. He said he simply can't let the future heir of the mafia be born a bastard."

Roman lit a cigar, took a deep drag, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.

Leaning back against the leather sofa, a malicious smirk curled his lips. "What? Seems like too little? Aria, when you orchestrated the murder of my parents, did it ever cross your mind that this day would come?"

Three years ago, his parents were ambushed and killed by a rival cartel on their way to Sicily.

Every single clue Roman dug up pointed fingers squarely at me—the person in charge of arranging their travel itinerary. From that day onward, the Roman who had once sworn to protect me with his life died. In his place stood a tyrant who derived twisted pleasure from torturing me.

Roman was certain I would crumble. He was convinced I would act just like I had for the past three years—with red-rimmed eyes, demanding to know why, crying and pleading with him to believe that I didn't kill his family.

But I didn't.

I merely signed the divorce papers. "Thank you for your generosity, Don."

Clenching the coin tightly in my palm, I turned my back on them and walked toward the heavy front doors.

"Stop right there!"

Roman's furious roar echoed behind me. A deafening crash followed as he kicked the heavy coffee table over. Wine bottles shattered across the floor, the crimson liquid spreading out like a pool of fresh blood.

He stormed over and violently wrapped his hand around my throat.

"Stop pretending you're so high and mighty!" His fingers tightened relentlessly, veins bulging on the back of his hand, his eyes wild like an enraged beast. "Do you think signing a piece of paper grants you freedom? Do you think I'll let you roll out of my sight that easily? You owe me! You owe me my parents' lives, and you won't be able to pay it back in a lifetime!"

Suffocation set in, and the blood rushed to my face, yet I didn't even put up a struggle.

I just stood there quietly staring at him, watching him slowly lose his grip on reality because of my eerie calm.

I knew what he desired was my pain, my tears—but I refused to give him a single drop of emotion ever again.

"Let... go of me..." I choked out with extreme difficulty. "The divorce papers... I already signed them."

"Divorce?" Roman laughed in absolute rage, abruptly shoving me away.

I collapsed onto the floor, coughing violently.

He spun around, snatched up the divorce agreement, and ripped it to shreds right in front of my face. The white scraps fluttered to the ground like snow.

"On my turf, I make the rules!" Roman glared down at me as if looking at a corpse. "Lock her in the basement water dungeon. Without my explicit order, no one is allowed to feed her."

Two enforcers immediately lunged forward, hoisting me up by both arms.

Callie fearfully shrank behind my mother, though a vicious, gloating gleam danced in her eyes.

I was dragged toward the pitch-black basement.

As I passed by Roman, I spoke in a faint, emotionless tone:

"So, the only way we're truly finished... is if I die right in front of you, isn't it?"