The Don's Obsessive Hunt

Elena's POV

I walked into the manor, clutching the divorce papers I had already signed.

Two years.

My father, the Castro family's personal lawyer, was silenced by rival forces. My mother held on for six months in her hospital bed before entrusting me to Riccardo Castro on her deathbed—the mafia don who ruled the underworld.

Riccardo kept his promise: he married me.

I spent two years as Riccardo's secretary, and I knew exactly how to handle the document. Now I just needed his signature one last time.

The study door stood ajar.

A thick, cloying scent of orange blossom drifted through the gap.

Two years ago, when I used an orange blossom hair conditioner, Riccardo had said in that tone that brooked no argument: "The scent is too strong. Change it."

But now, that heavy orange blossom fragrance—Serena's signature perfume—filled his study, and not only did it not bother him, he was laughing.

It wasn't until Serena returned that I learned how well Riccardo could treat someone.

Serena was the only daughter of the noble Serra family, Riccardo's childhood sweetheart. But due to family arrangements, she had married Riccardo's brother, Marco.

Until Marco died.

Serena moved back in as the "family widow."

Riccardo personally arranged everything. The room in the best part of the east wing, with windows overlooking the entire rose garden. A car at her beck and call, bodyguards around the clock. Even her cat had a dedicated servant.

For the first time, I realized he could care for someone with meticulous attention.

That someone was just never me.

I pushed open the door.

Riccardo sat behind his desk.

Serena leaned against the armrest of his chair.

Her fingers rested on his shoulder, adjusting his collar with practiced ease. She tilted her head with a laugh, her hair grazing his neck.

She saw me first.

"Elena! We were just talking about going to a concert. Would you like to join us?"

"No need." I placed the documents on the desk.

Riccardo's gaze swept over me like I was a piece of furniture. "Weren't you going to the archives today?"

I tucked the divorce papers in the middle of a stack of foundation documents, flipped to the signature page, and pushed them toward him.

"A few routine documents that need your signature."

He set down his glass, his fingers pressing the edge of the paper, a slight frown forming—

"Let me see the content."

My heart seized. "Routine documents. Nothing important."

"Riccardo," Serena suddenly laughed, leaning in closer, "when did you become so cautious? When you used to sign my failing Latin test papers as kids, you never even looked."

The corner of his mouth lifted.

That childhood memory clearly stirred his affection. Without further review, he picked up his pen and signed his name.

One stroke after another, swift and decisive.

I pulled the documents back during his conversation with Serena, my fingertips trembling slightly.

Serena glanced at me, her tone carrying that familiar intimacy: "Honestly, Riccardo, you treat her like a secretary running errands. She's basically just doing menial work. Nothing like the lady of the manor."

Riccardo said nothing, as if he hadn't heard a thing.

I turned and left.

I took a deep breath.

Something that had been taut in my chest quietly loosened.

At seventeen, I was sent to the Castro manor.

Riccardo was twenty-five then, having just taken over most of the family business. Unapproachable, he carried a silence that commanded respect.

He gave me a job—personal secretary. Organizing files, scheduling appointments, recording meeting minutes, sitting quietly at negotiation tables.

I learned quickly. In two years, I even felt I had become part of the manor's machinery.

Marriage came after I mentioned wanting to return to school to study literature.

There was no room for discussion in his tone: "You need an identity. The family needs a stable arrangement. Marriage is good for both of us."

We had our moments that could be called tender.

In the first months of marriage, he would bring roses when he came home late at night. If I fell asleep on the couch, he'd carry me back to the bedroom, his movements gentle as if afraid to wake a cat.

Once when I had a fever, he stayed by my bedside all night, his cool hand resting on my forehead.

I thought that was the beginning.

It was actually everything.

Our second wedding anniversary.

I worked up the courage to do something I'd never done before—I booked a table at that Michelin restaurant downtown, bought a deep blue dress (I remembered Riccardo saying he liked blue), and started preparing at four in the afternoon.

I thought, maybe this time, if I took the initiative, he would see me.

I waited at the restaurant until midnight. Riccardo never came, never called.

The next morning, the butler placed the newspaper beside my breakfast plate. On the society page's front photo, Riccardo was draping a coat over Serena's shoulders.

I stared at that photo for a long time.

The expression on Riccardo's face was one I had never seen before—that focused, soft, almost doting look, as if gazing at the most precious thing in the world.

That night, I cut that deep blue dress into pieces.

From that day on, I began planning my escape.

I stood at the end of the corridor, clutching those documents.

I didn't want to be the invisible wife of the Castro manor anymore. Didn't want to watch Serena slowly claim every position that had always belonged to her.

I wanted to do something else—anything else, even if I wasn't sure what yet.

I lowered my head, gently tracing that signature with my thumb.

The ink had dried.

Two years. I had been his secretary, his wife, the quietest shadow in the manor.

But from today on, I would only be Elena.