The Scapegoat Fiancée: I Am No Substitute

Seven years. That was the price I paid for my sister’s crime.

My fiancé, Dante, the most ruthless Don in New York, called my prison sentence "mercy." He promised we would go back to how things were once the debt was paid.

But when I walked out of those gates, I didn't find a husband waiting for me. I found him peeling grapes for my sister, Chiara.

They sat at the family table, telling me I was unstable. They demanded I break our engagement so Dante could marry her instead.

They claimed she was fragile, dying of leukemia, while I was "strong enough" to handle the rejection.

They didn't know the truth.

They didn't know that while I was in solitary, I was dragged to a clinic to donate my bone marrow—without anesthesia—to save her life.

I gave my freedom and my bones for this family. Yet, when I told Dante the truth, he looked me in the eye and called me a liar. He chose the sister who framed me over the woman who sacrificed everything for him.

So, I didn't scream. I didn't fight. I simply disappeared.

Two years later, when Dante finally found me in a gallery in Paris, begging on his knees with his wrist slashed in desperation, I didn't feel love.

I looked at the man who destroyed me and said, "Security, please escort this gentleman out."