Marry the Don, Forget the Man
Two days before our wedding, my fiancé called it off for his childhood sweetheart, postponing everything by ten days.
He sighed, "Daisy told me that day happens to be her birthday party. It's her first birthday since she lost her husband, so I can't miss it, or she'd be devastated. Elena, we're going to get married. What difference does a week earlier or later make?"
This was the third time he had canceled our wedding for Daisy.
The first time, Daisy claimed she was suffering from severe depression, and he dropped everything to rush to her side. He stayed with her for a whole week.
The second time, Daisy said she wanted to see the northern lights. He was terrified she might travel alone in that fragile state, so he went with her. They were gone for ten days.
And now this was the third.
But unlike all the other times, I didn't argue with him. I didn't raise my voice or throw a single accusatory word his way.
He thought I was a helpless orphan who'd never leave him. He had no idea that I was the princess of Rossi family, a powerful mafia family.
To hide my identity and marry a man outside our world, I had made a three‑month wager with my father—a gamble that I could build a normal life and marry on my own terms.
But I had lost.
My fiancé still thought this was just another postponement. He didn't know that there would be no next time.