The Mafia's Rejected Wife

James’s phone buzzed on the table, and the name flashing on the screen made his heart skip a beat.

“Uncle, I need your help one last time... I promise it’ll be the last favor I ever ask of you.”

Her voice message was calm — too calm. Something in Elizabeth’s tone felt final, like a door quietly closing.

“I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes,” he replied.

Half an hour later, a black luxury car stopped in front of the gated community. Elizabeth stood at the entrance, dressed simply, her eyes distant, her expression unreadable.

“Liz, my dear, let’s go,” James said, forcing a smile.

She stepped inside and handed him a folded piece of paper — an address.

“You’re not about to make me a great-uncle, are you?” he joked, trying to lighten the air.

“No,” she said flatly. “I’m just going to prove to your nephew that he’s an idiot. Since he won’t give me a divorce, I’ll find another way to get rid of him.”

“Liz… be careful,” James warned. There was something different about her. Her voice, her eyes — this wasn’t the fragile girl he’d spent years protecting.

He didn’t ask questions. He just drove, every mile feeling heavier than the last. The guilt he carried for arranging her marriage to Jonathan clawed at him. He thought he was saving her from one monster, but maybe he’d handed her to another.

At the clinic, Elizabeth simply said, “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

Nearly an hour passed before she returned. Her face was calm, almost peaceful — too peaceful.

“Can I at least know what we came here for?” he asked.

“No,” she replied softly, a faint smile on her lips.

James didn’t press her. He drove her home in silence.

Upstairs, Elizabeth sat at her desk and took out a piece of paper. She wrote slowly, carefully — a few short lines that would soon shatter the man she once loved.

Then she called her brother. They talked for a while, her tone warm and calm. She called her brother-in-law next, spoke kindly, and said goodbye.

After that, she went to the bathroom… and closed the door.

Hours later, Jonathan came home. He was exhausted, his mind clouded with work and anger. He noticed the folded note on the table but ignored it.

He’d talk to her face-to-face.

He climbed the stairs and stopped outside the bathroom door when he heard the water running.

“Elizabeth? If you want to talk, I’m home.”

No answer.

“Elizabeth, did you hear me?”

Silence.

A bad feeling crawled up his spine. He pushed the door open—

—and the world stopped.

“Fuck, Elizabeth!”

The water overflowed from the bathtub, dyed red. She was still wearing the blue dress from their engagement day, soaked and clinging to her body.

Jonathan rushed forward, pulling her from the tub. Her skin was pale, her pulse weak. Blood spilled from one wrist, the other barely scratched — as if she’d hesitated before giving in.

He pressed his hand against the wound, trembling, trying to stop the bleeding. With the other, he grabbed the phone.

“Tio! Help me! Elizabeth is hurt—she’s dying!”

“Jonathan, calm down! I just dropped her off!”

“Tio, she cut her wrist! Please—help me!”

“I’m on my way! I’ll call an ambulance!”

Jonathan’s voice broke as he held her against his chest.

“Stay with me, Elizabeth… please, don’t leave me.”

But her eyes were closed.

And for the first time in his life, the man who thought he couldn’t love anyone realized what he was about to lose.