The Wife He Took for Granted

Part 1: The Last Piece of My Pride

For three years, my husband had taught me a cruel lesson: no matter how much I sacrificed for him, I would always come second to the woman he had loved before me.

His childhood sweetheart wanted something? He gave it to her.

She disliked something? He made sure I took it instead.

And every time I protested, Adrian Moretti, Chicago’s most feared Mafia boss, looked at me as though I were the most unreasonable woman alive.

Until Thanksgiving night, when I finally stopped begging for a place in my own marriage.

My name is Claire Bennett Moretti, and I had been Adrian’s wife for exactly three years.

I still remembered our wedding day. Adrian had held my hand beneath a canopy of white roses and promised that no one would ever make me feel alone again.

Back then, I believed him.

I believed the man who sent a dozen black roses to my office simply because I mentioned liking them. The man who flew home from New York in the middle of a business meeting because I had a fever. The man who kissed my forehead and called me his only weakness.

Then Sophia Lane returned to Chicago.

And slowly, my husband became a stranger.

Sophia had known Adrian since childhood. She knew his favorite songs, his preferred whiskey, and the stories behind every scar on his body. She also knew exactly how to look at him when she wanted something.

A lowered gaze.

A trembling smile.

A quiet little sigh.

That was all it took.

My anniversary handbag became hers because she had admired it. My vacation wardrobe disappeared into her suitcase because she had forgotten to pack enough clothes. Even the dress I had chosen for our rehearsal dinner ended up hanging in Sophia’s closet.

Every time, Adrian offered the same explanation.

“She’s like family, Claire. Don’t be selfish.”

I kept telling myself that marriage required patience.

I kept telling myself that one day he would remember I was his wife.

But on Thanksgiving, sitting at a table surrounded by the people who feared my husband, I finally understood how foolish I had been.

The housekeeper placed two slices of pecan pie on the table.

Adrian’s favorite dessert.

Sophia immediately reached for the larger slice, the one covered in whipped cream and caramel sauce.

Adrian smiled at her and pushed the smaller, plain slice toward me.

“You can have this one, Claire.”

I stared at the plate.

For a moment, I thought he might be joking. Three years ago, he had once driven forty minutes through a snowstorm to find me the exact dessert I wanted.

Now he couldn’t even let me choose my own slice of pie.

“I don’t want it,” I said quietly.

Sophia paused with her fork halfway to her mouth.

Adrian’s smile disappeared.

“What?”

“I said I don’t want it.”

The conversation around the table died instantly.

Sophia quickly pushed her plate toward me.

“Oh, Claire, you can have mine. I don’t mind.”

Before I could respond, Adrian caught her wrist.

“Don’t. Eat your pie.”

Then he turned to me, his gray eyes hardening.

“Claire, stop making a scene. Eat it or don’t.”

I looked at him.

At the man I had defended, loved, and waited for.

Then I slowly pushed my chair back.

“Then I won’t.”

I walked away from the table without another word.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t argue. I didn’t even look back.

For the first time in three years, I refused to compete with Sophia Lane.

Unfortunately, Adrian wasn’t finished punishing me.

When I reached the garage, my Mercedes refused to unlock. I tried my phone, then the spare key, but the security system flashed red.

My access had been revoked.

I called Adrian.

He answered on the third ring.

“Your car isn’t working.”

“I’m busy, Claire.”

“You’ve locked me out of my own car.”

A brief silence followed.

“Maybe you’ll think twice before embarrassing me in front of my guests.”

Then he hung up.

I stood in the freezing Chicago wind for forty minutes waiting for a rideshare. My hands went numb, and the thin coat I wore did little to protect me from the cold.

By the time I arrived at the mansion, my husband was already home.

He stood in the foyer with his sleeves rolled up, looking irritated.

“You embarrassed everyone over a piece of pie,” he said. “I even made you something to eat, and you still insist on acting like a child.”

For one foolish second, my heart softened.

He had made me food.

Perhaps he had realized he’d gone too far.

Perhaps, beneath all that pride, there was still a man who cared whether his wife was hungry.

I followed him into the dining room.

And there she was.

Sophia sat comfortably at my dining table, wearing my favorite house slippers, a bowl of steaming chicken Alfredo in front of her.

Across from her sat another bowl.

Cold pasta.

The sauce had congealed into a thick, unappetizing layer. A piece of garlic bread lay beside it, with a bite already missing.

Sophia glanced up at me and smiled.

“Adrian made two kinds because I couldn’t decide what I wanted. I chose the Alfredo, so he saved the other for you.”

I looked at the food.

Then at my husband.

“You made dinner for her?”

Adrian shrugged.

“She wanted Alfredo. You don’t even like creamy pasta that much.”

It was true that I preferred tomato sauce.

But he knew I hated eating cold food. He knew I had barely eaten anything at Thanksgiving dinner.

And he knew exactly what it meant to bring me the leftovers after serving Sophia first.

My gaze dropped to her feet.

Those were my slippers.

The soft cream-colored ones I’d bought after a long business trip because they were the only pair that didn’t hurt my feet.

“Sophia doesn’t like the cheap guest slippers,” Adrian explained casually. “I told her she could use yours.”

I stared at him for several seconds.

Then I reached into a nearby drawer, took out a pair of disposable slippers, and put them on.

“Okay.”

Adrian’s eyebrows drew together.

“That’s it?”

I looked up.

“What else do you want me to say?”

He seemed unsettled by my answer, but before he could respond, Sophia placed her fork down.

“Claire,” she asked softly, “do you hate me?”

For three years, I had always comforted her.

I’d told her she was welcome in our home. I’d assured her that I didn’t mind lending her my belongings. I’d even apologized when she cried after Adrian and I argued about her.

But tonight, I was exhausted.

“Yes,” I answered.

Sophia went completely still.

I took a breath and continued.

“Yes, Sophia. I hate how you take things that belong to me and then pretend you don’t know what you’re doing. I hate how you make yourself comfortable in my marriage while my husband treats me like an unwanted guest.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Adrian, I didn’t mean—”

He was already standing.

“Claire! Enough!”

Of course.

He hadn’t defended me when Sophia wore my clothes. He hadn’t cared when I waited in the cold because he’d disabled my car.

But the moment she cried, he became her protector.

I looked at him and felt something inside me settle into place.

Not anger.

Not jealousy.

Something much colder.

Indifference.

I turned and walked upstairs.

Ten minutes later, Adrian followed, carrying the bowl of cold pasta.

He set it on my bedside table with an irritated sigh.

“She feels terrible,” he said. “You could have handled that more gracefully.”

I was standing by the window, watching the Chicago skyline shimmer in the distance.

“Did you bring me dinner because you care about me,” I asked, “or because you want me to stop complaining?”

His jaw tightened.

“Don’t twist my words.”

“Then answer the question.”

He stared at me, apparently astonished that I had dared to challenge him twice in one evening.

Finally, he scoffed.

“Sophia has been part of my life since childhood. Why is sharing a few things such a sacrifice?”

I turned around.

“A few things?”

He folded his arms.

“Yes, Claire. A handbag. Some clothes. A pair of slippers. Now a bowl of pasta. Must everything become a battle with you?”

I almost laughed.

He genuinely believed the problem was the objects.

He couldn’t understand that every borrowed dress, every stolen gift, every discarded leftover had become another message.

You are not my first choice.

Your feelings don’t matter.

You will accept whatever I decide to give you.

I had swallowed those messages for three years.

Never again.

“You’re unbelievably selfish,” Adrian said.

I looked at the man who had once promised to protect my heart.

Then I raised my hand.

SLAP!

The sound cracked through the bedroom.

Adrian’s head turned slightly. For several seconds, he didn’t move.

No one slapped Adrian Moretti.

Not his business rivals. Not the politicians who secretly depended on his money. Not the men who knew he could destroy their lives with a single phone call.

And now his wife had done it.

He slowly turned back toward me, his eyes dark with disbelief.

“Claire.”

I walked to the dresser, opened the bottom drawer, and removed a thick folder.

Then I placed it beside the cold pasta.

He glanced down.

His expression changed.

DIVORCE SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT.

His name was printed beneath mine.

He stared at the document, then looked at me with a humorless smile.

“What the hell is this?”

“My divorce papers.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’ve already signed them.” I pushed the folder closer. “Now you do it.”

For a moment, he simply watched me.

Then he laughed.

It was a sharp, disbelieving sound, the kind he used when someone made a threat he considered ridiculous.

“You’re jealous of Sophia. You’ve been building this up in your head for years, and now you’re throwing a tantrum. You’ll calm down tomorrow.”

“I don’t want you to choose between me and Sophia.”

His smile widened.

“Good. Because I’m not going to.”

I nodded slowly.

“I know.”

Something in my voice made his expression falter.

I stepped closer to him.

“I just don’t want to be your wife anymore.”

The laughter vanished.

For the first time that night, Adrian seemed unable to find an immediate response.

But his pride quickly returned.

“Fine,” he snapped. “If you want to act like a child, go ahead. Sleep on it. Tomorrow you’ll realize how ridiculous this is.”

He turned and walked out, leaving the divorce papers untouched on the table.

He was certain I would cry.

Certain I would come downstairs before midnight, apologize, and beg him to forgive me.

He had spent three years teaching me that I could never survive without him.

So I began packing.

I took my clothes, my passport, my personal documents, and the few possessions that had belonged to me before I became a Moretti.

I left the diamonds he had bought me.

I left the designer handbags.

I left the watches, the expensive jewelry, and every gift that had come with an unspoken expectation of obedience.

Those things had never made me feel loved.

They had only made me feel indebted.

Before leaving the bedroom, I took off my wedding ring.

For a long moment, I held it in my palm.

Then I placed it directly on top of the divorce papers.

Downstairs, I could hear Sophia speaking in a trembling voice.

“I hope Claire doesn’t leave because of me.”

Adrian answered immediately.

“She won’t. She’s just trying to get my attention.”

I closed my suitcase.

Then I picked it up and walked toward the stairs.

The wheels rattled against the marble floor, echoing through the mansion.

Adrian looked up from the sofa.

Sophia sat beside him, wrapped in a cashmere blanket that I recognized as mine.

His expression shifted when he saw the suitcase.

“Claire? What are you doing?”

I kept walking.

“Leaving.”

He stood abruptly.

“Stop being ridiculous. Put that bag down.”

I reached the front door and rested my hand on the handle.

Behind me, his voice grew colder.

“Claire Bennett Moretti, I am not asking you again.”

Three years ago, hearing my full name in that tone would have made my knees weak.

Tonight, it barely reached me.

I turned to face him one final time.

He stood beneath the crystal chandelier, tall and immaculate, with the confidence of a man who had never imagined losing something he considered his.

“I’m not angry anymore, Adrian.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve finally stopped waiting for you to love me the way a husband should.”

He took one step toward me.

“Claire—”

“I don’t want your money. I don’t want your gifts. And I don’t want another promise you’ll break the moment Sophia asks you for something.”

His face had gone strangely pale.

I opened the door.

“I’m done being your wife.”

Then I walked out into the cold Chicago night.

The door closed behind me.

And for several seconds, Adrian Moretti stood completely motionless.

He had watched enemies beg for mercy without blinking. He had destroyed men who threatened his empire and walked away without a second thought.

Yet the sight of one suitcase beside his front door had left him unable to speak.

Then he remembered the folder upstairs.

The signature at the bottom of the first page.

The wedding ring resting on top.

And the date printed beside my name.

His expression changed.

Because those divorce papers hadn’t been prepared that evening.

They had been prepared weeks earlier.

And Adrian was about to discover that the wife he believed would never leave him had been planning her escape long before Thanksgiving dinner.

End of Part 1.