Mafia Don's Wife: My Sweet Architect Revenge

ah

he lobby, his face a mask of exhausted resignation. He looked less li

his voice low and flat. "Refu

ling, his words a tangled slurry about the immense pressure, the deals, his crippling fear of failure. He talked about Olivia and the power

My body went through the old motions-pouring him a glass of water, straighte

rrowed. He murmured a name, a soft whisper that

ivi

't a slip of the tongue; it was

is face before settling into practiced relief. "You're here," he breathed, reaching for m

anced at the screen, and his entire demeanor

from

ce suddenly sharp and urgent, all tr

t a wince, ignoring the small blossom of blood on

to be-" I started, pla

ready halfway to the door. That

f his own lies in his wake. I stood alone in the silence he left behind. The pathetic, bloody bandage on the floo

packing. My suitcases stood by the doo

ses. A flicker of annoyance, not concern, crossed his face. He thought his hospit

g?" he asked, stepp

ar's Bluetooth, rang. The name flas

to take the call, leaving me standing in the driveway with my luggage. He was

voice, tinny and clear, drifted b

livia, his tone chillingly casual. "She a

get o

int. He saw me as a self-repairing appliance. A

call. I got in my car and drove away