Loading promotion info...
Ten Million For His Missing Secret Wife
Novelix
Completed
I was secretly married to Alessandro Moretti, the Don of the Moretti family, for five years. He said keeping me hidden kept me safe from the rats in his family. I believed him. But at the dinner where he was supposed to announce me as his wife, he introduced my adoptive sister, Lilian, as his bride instead. When we were both pregnant, he looked at me with cold eyes and said, "Get rid of the baby. Lilian's fragile right now." That was the last straw. I agreed to my mother's plan and disappeared from his life completely. After I left, the word on the street was the cold, untouchable Don had gone insane—offering ten million dollars for the return of his missing wife.
Chapters (3)
第1章
I was secretly married to Alessandro Moretti, the Don of the Moretti family, for five years.
He said there were still rats in the family, and keeping me a secret was to keep me safe.
I believed him.
But at the dinner where he was supposed to announce me as his wife, he introduced my adoptive sister, Lilian, as his bride instead.
His promises... they were all a lie.
And when we were both pregnant at the same time, he told me, cold as ice, "Get rid of the baby."
"Lilian's fragile right now. She can't handle the stress."
That was the last straw. I agreed to my mother's plan to move to London and disappeared from his life completely.
But after I left, the word on the street was the cold, untouchable Don of the Moretti family had gone insane. He put out a ten-million-dollar reward for the return of his missing wife.
……
Thanksgiving at the Moretti estate. The place was lit up like a beacon. I was in my bedroom on the second floor, fastening the clasp on a string of pearls.
The woman in the mirror wore a deep red velvet dress. A woman with sharp collarbones and eyes that were a little too bright with anticipation.
I’d been preparing for this night for three months.
Because after tonight, I would no longer be Alessandro Moretti's secret wife.
We’d been married for five years, hidden away because, as Alessandro claimed, there were traitors in the family who hadn't been dealt with. To reveal my identity would be to paint a target on my back.
I’d believed him. So completely that not even my own mother knew we were married.
But last month, he told me himself: the rats had been found and dealt with.
"At the Thanksgiving dinner, I'm going to announce us. Everyone will finally know you're mine."
So there I was, practicing a smile in the mirror.
Don't get too excited. Keep it together.
You’re the Don’s wife. You need to be poised.
The band downstairs struck up a tune. The low murmur of guests drifted down the hall. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
The grand hall was packed with the faces of New York's elite—politicians, bankers, real estate tycoons, and the capos of the Moretti family.
Then I saw him. Alessandro. He was standing in the center of the room, his dark brown hair slicked back without a single strand out of place. He was speaking with a few of the family elders, that usual, distant smile playing on his lips.
Anticipation made my heart pound.
He walked to the center of the stage and took the microphone.
"Thank you all for joining the Moretti family for our annual dinner."
"On this special night, I have an important announcement to make."
I clutched my wine glass, my heart threatening to beat its way out of my chest.
I was already taking a step toward him, ready to walk to his side, when I saw Alessandro’s eyes sweep over the crowd, passing right over me as if I were a stranger.
Then, he extended his hand to his right.
"Lilian, come up."
My adoptive sister, Lilian, stepped out from the crowd, a vision in a floor-length white gown.
Alessandro took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.
"Tonight, I am honored to introduce to you all—" Alessandro’s voice boomed through the hall, "—my wife, Lilian Moretti."
The room erupted. Applause, cheers, the clinking of champagne glasses.
The only sound I registered was my own glass shattering on the marble floor. The color drained from my face.
No one noticed.
Lilian leaned into Alessandro’s arms, and my husband—my husband—leaned down to press a tender kiss to her forehead.
I tried to tell myself it was a nightmare, but the cheers were too loud, too real.
I don’t remember how I survived the rest of the night.
I only know that after the last guest had finally gone, I cornered Alessandro in a back corridor of the estate.
"Explain," I said. My voice was shaking, but I forced myself to look him dead in the eye. "Tell me what you said up there wasn't real."
Alessandro sighed. "Those papers I gave you last week. You signed them, didn't you?"
I went cold. "You mean the property transfer agreement?"
"They were divorce papers."
I was floored. "You... you tricked me into signing divorce papers? Why?"
My meltdown seemed to annoy him, his eyes flashing with impatience. "Lilian needs this title more than you do. She’s your sister. You of all people should understand her situation."
I stumbled back as if he'd struck me.
Before I could react, I heard Lilian’s voice calling his name from a distance. I watched the coldness in Alessandro’s eyes melt away in an instant.
He turned and left me without a second thought.
I don't know how long I stood there in that empty hallway.
Finally, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.
It rang twice. "Margaret? It’s late. What’s wrong?"
"Mom," I said, using every ounce of strength I had to keep my voice from breaking, "that plan you mentioned… about moving to London… is it still an option?"
Silence on the other end.
I knew she was shocked. For two years, she’d pleaded with me to leave New York with her, and every time, I had refused.
"Of course, it is," she said, her voice turning soft. "Always. When do you want to go?"
"As soon as possible."
After I hung up, I leaned against the cold wall and slid to the floor.
My phone screen lit up. A text from Lilian, with three photos attached.
The first showed her and Alessandro kissing in a wine cellar. I recognized it. The vineyard in Tuscany he’d promised to buy for me last year. The photo was dated a year ago.
They were already together. Back when I was still blissfully happy in my marriage.
The second was a photo of Alessandro’s bare back. I knew the iris tattoo etched into his skin—it was my symbol. Now, tattooed next to the petals in delicate script, was her name: Lilian.
My fingers started to shake.
I zoomed in on the third photo, and my blood turned to ice.
It wasn't Alessandro who shocked me. It was the man standing beside him.
A face I could never mistake.
The phone slipped from my grasp, the screen cracking on the marble floor.
A second later, another text from Lilian buzzed.
"Ever wonder why Alessandro really married you five years ago?"
第2章
Five years ago, I was on top of the world, walking out of the museum after finishing the restoration of a 16th-century Venetian painting.
Then a black SUV blew through a red light and slammed straight into me.
My wrist was shattered. The tendons in three of my fingers were shredded. The doctor told me there was a sixty percent chance my right hand would never again be capable of delicate, precise work.
For an art restorer, it was a career death sentence.
Alessandro was the first one at the hospital.
He burst into my room, his eyes bloodshot, his suit still spattered with coffee from whatever meeting he'd just run out of.
He grabbed my left hand and kissed my fingers over and over.
"I'll find out who did this," he vowed, his voice trembling with rage. "I swear to God, Margaret, I will make them pay."
Through my tears, I said I wanted to call the police.
He stopped me.
"Don't call the cops. What are they gonna do? Lock them up for a few years?" His gaze turned dark and dangerous. "I will make him suffer a hundred times more than any prison could. Leave it to me."
I believed him.
He was Alessandro Moretti, the king of New York's underworld. When he made a promise, he kept it.
Three days after my surgery, as I cried over my useless hand, he got down on one knee beside my hospital bed.
"Even if this hand can never fix anything again, you are still my most priceless treasure."
"Marry me, Margaret."
Our secret wedding had no guests. Just a priest and the diamond ring he slid onto my finger.
And I had never been happier.
But now, I stared at the third photo on my shattered phone. The man standing next to Alessandro.
It was Marco. The driver from the crash.
Alessandro had told me Marco had been "handled," that I never had to worry about him again.
But here he was, alive and well, standing loyally by Alessandro’s side.
I crouched in the hallway, a deep, bone-chilling cold seeping into me.
The screen lit up one last time. A wall of text from Lilian.
"Marco wasn't alone in the car that day. I was with him."
"Alessandro didn't call the cops, not to get revenge for you, but to keep me from being implicated."
"And marrying you? That was just to buy your silence. It worked pretty well, didn't it?"
My stomach twisted into a knot. Bile burned the back of my throat.
Then a second message came through. A voice recording.
A terrible premonition washed over me, a certainty that if I pressed play, my world would finally, completely shatter.
My finger moved on its own.
Alessandro's voice filled the silence—low, calm, with that same detached tone he used for business.
"Margaret's pregnant."
Then Enzo, his consigliere. "That's good news, Boss. An heir..."
"The timing is wrong," Alessandro cut him off. "Handle it."
The recording ended.
A roar filled my ears. My mind was violently dragged back three years.
That winter, I’d found out I was pregnant. The two pink lines on the test had made my hands shake with pure joy.
When Alessandro found out, he’d picked me up and spun me around, pressing his face to my stomach and whispering, "Our baby. It's going to be as beautiful as you."
I had let myself dream of our little family.
The very next day, our convoy was attacked.
The moment shots rang out, Alessandro threw his body over mine. But a second round of fire came from another direction, and my first instinct was to protect him. I threw myself in front of him.
A bullet tore through my abdomen.
I bled out our child on the cold leather seat of the car.
Alessandro held me, his face streaked with my blood, whispering "I'm sorry" over and over.
I thought it was a random, tragic accident. I even comforted him, told him it wasn't his fault, that we would have another child.
But now, his words from the recording played on a loop in my head:
"The timing is wrong. Handle it."
That attack... he'd set it up. He had killed our child himself.
And those whispered apologies? He was probably just sorry the bullet had missed its mark, that it hadn't taken me out along with the baby.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, darkening the velvet of my dress.
How ridiculously funny.
From the proposal staged as "protection" to the ambush disguised as an "accident," every single step was a calculated move on his chessboard.
And I was the fool, the most willing pawn, walking into every trap while thanking him for my own destruction.
I slowly pulled a folded piece of paper from my small clutch.
The pregnancy report I’d picked up just this afternoon.
Seven weeks.
I had planned to give it to him tonight as a surprise, a celebration of our new life together.
Now, it seemed, that wasn't necessary.
I tore it into tiny, unrecognizable pieces and let them fall into the trash.
第3章
The next morning, I started to pack.
My mother had already found us a place in London. The flight was booked for three days from now.
I didn't have much to take. My room was a mausoleum of Alessandro's ghosts—the gifts, the photographs, the memories. I wanted none of it.
I was zipping up the suitcase when Alessandro walked in.
He carried a small, elegant paper bag. He saw the suitcase and his brow furrowed. "What are you doing?"
I moved to block his view. "Seasonal cleaning. Donating some old clothes."
He didn't press. He set the bag on the entryway table. "Lilian's morning sickness is acting up. I got her some tiramisu from Cipriani—it’s the only thing she can keep down. I brought you some, too."
His tone was so casual, as if last night had never happened.
Just then, my mother came downstairs. Seeing Alessandro, she offered a polite smile.
She still didn't know.
In her eyes, Alessandro was just the boy I grew up with, the respectable heir to the Moretti family. A good man.
"Alessandro, good to see you this early," my mother said, taking the dessert. "You always take such wonderful care of Margaret and Lilian. When Margaret finally settles down, I can only hope she finds a man half as thoughtful as you."
My hand clenched into a fist at my side.
Alessandro just smiled, his expression warm and utterly false. "Auntie, Margaret and I grew up together. She's like a sister to me. When she starts dating, I'll be sure to vet the guy properly for her."
Like a sister.
I stared at his perfectly composed face, and the world tilted on its axis.
I remembered my birthday two years ago, when he’d walked away from a ten-million-dollar arms deal just to have dinner with me.
I remembered him renting out the entire estate gardens to light up the sky with fireworks, just for me.
I remembered the nights he had me pinned beneath him, groaning my name like a prayer, like he wanted to devour me whole, to meld me into his very bones.
And now, he said I was like a sister.
A violent wave of nausea surged through me.
I clapped a hand over my mouth and bolted for the bathroom.
The sound of me heaving echoed in the small space. I gripped the sink, pressing my forehead against the cool mirror, listening to my mother's anxious voice. "Margaret? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Just drank too much last night."
I stayed behind the closed door, taking deep breaths, praying he would be gone when I came out.
He wasn't. He was blocking the doorway.
My mother was in the living room on the phone. We were alone in the hall.
He looked down at me, his dark eyes devoid of any warmth. He stated it like a fact. "You're pregnant."
I clenched my jaw, refusing to answer.
Alessandro sighed. Then, flatly, he said, "Get rid of it."
I looked up, meeting his gaze head-on. "By what right?"
"Lilian is pregnant, too, and she's extremely fragile right now," he said, his voice a monotone. "If she finds out you're pregnant, she'll have a breakdown. I won't have anything jeopardize her or the baby."
Lilian. Always, always Lilian.
It wasn't the first time.
Three years ago, I'd wanted an emerald necklace at an auction. Lilian mentioned she liked it, so he bought it for her without a second thought. His excuse to me? "You're my wife, you'll have everything. Let your sister have this."
Two Christmases ago, I was burning up with a fever, but he spent the entire night by Lilian's side, coddling her through an anxiety attack. When he came back the next day and found me delirious, all he said was, "Why didn't you call for a doctor?"
Every time I confronted him, the excuse was the same.
"She’s the weaker one, Margaret. You’re strong."
"She's your sister. I look out for her because she's important to you."
"You shouldn't be so petty."
I used to believe him. I thought I was the problem, that I was just jealous of a fragile sister who needed more care.
But now I saw it clearly. Every excuse was another link in the chain he used to bind me, to make my sacrifices feel normal so he could lavish all his affection on her.
His heart had left me a long, long time ago.
Alessandro reached out to touch my shoulder—the first time he'd tried to touch me since the party. He was so close I could smell the sickly sweet scent of Lilian's perfume clinging to his suit.
I recoiled, shoving him away with all my strength.
He stumbled back a step, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes.
"What gives you the right to demand anything of me?" I asked, my lips twisting into a sneer. "As what? My brother-in-law?"
