When he disappeared upstairs, I gathered the house keys and placed them neatly on the table beside the torn divorce papers. I signed my name again on a fresh copy and left it where he could not miss it.
Then I walked out of the mansion I had lived in for five years, leaving behind the empire, the title of Mrs. Volkov, and the man who never even realized his daughter had already gone to the grave.
I had loved Vincent Volkov in silence for five years before I ever became his wife, and I spent another five years married to him, believing that devotion could eventually turn into affection. To stand beside him openly as Mrs. Volkov, my mother paid the ultimate price. To walk away from him, I lost my daughter.
My mother had served the Volkov estate for most of her life. She was more than a housekeeper; she was practically a shadow to Catherine Marconi, the Don’s wife, tending to her needs day and night. The family trusted her, relied on her, and rewarded her loyalty with steady raises and quiet gratitude.