“You made a decision,” I told him. “So live with it.” He paraded her in front of me. Called her the future. Sent me to the guest room. But I didn’t just take the insult, I took the crown 👑. The girl they thought they broke? She’s not here anymore. I am Serafina Dorian, daughter of a mafia ghost king 🔥, and I won’t be silenced, sidelined, or sold again 💣. This isn’t a love story. It’s a reckoning ❤️🔥. Chapter 1 Serafina “Matteo, please.” My voice cracks like I’m some desperate teenager instead of a grown woman in a designer gown. “Just… look at me. Really look at me.” He doesn’t even glance up from adjusting his platinum cufflinks—the ones I bought him for our first anniversary. His dark hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, because God forbid Matteo Verrelli looks anything less than immaculate. Sharp jaw, those cold gray eyes that used to make my stomach flip, now they just make me nauseous. He’s all sharp angles and expensive suits, like he was carved from marble by some twisted artist who forgot to add a soul. “I’m busy, Serafina.” His voice is flat, dismissive. Like I’m the help asking for a raise. “When aren’t you busy?” I’m standing in our bedroom—correction, his bedroom that I happen to sleep in—wearing this ridiculous emerald silk dress that cost more than most people’s cars. The color brings out my dark eyes, makes my olive skin glow. At least, that’s what I used to think. Now I feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life. “I love you.” The words tumble out like a confession, desperate and pathetic. “I know this marriage started as… business, but I love you. I have for two years now, and I just need to know if there’s any part of you that could—” “No.” One word. Two letters. Complete annihilation. “No.” He straightens his tie, checks his Rolex. “We have an arrangement, Serafina. Don’t complicate it with… feelings.” Feelings. Like love is some inconvenient side effect I caught from drinking the wrong water. The family dinner that night is a masterclass in psychological warfare. Viviana sits at the head of the table like a queen presiding over an execution, her perfectly coiffed silver hair catching the candlelight. She’s been sharpening her claws on me for three years, and tonight she’s going for the throat. Viviana Verrelli—born Viviana Rossi, daughter of a minor tobacco baron—clawed her way into this family forty years ago by being prettier and more ruthless than anyone else. She’s spent decades perfecting the art of destroying other women while maintaining her saintly facade. Started with Matteo’s father’s first wife, who mysteriously developed a “drinking problem” and died in a car accident. Then moved on to systematically eliminating every female threat to her position. I’m just the latest in a long line of casualties. “Serafina, cara,” she begins, voice dripping with fake sweetness, “perhaps you should see Dr. Martinelli again. About your… fertility issues.” The words hit like a slap. “I don’t have fertility issues.” “Then why,” Bianca chimes in, twirling her pasta like she’s discussing the weather, “haven’t you given us an heir? Three years is plenty of time, don’t you think?” Bianca Verrelli—twenty-eight, Matteo’s younger sister, and living proof that privilege can create monsters. She’s got everything handed to her on a silver platter but still needs to destroy other people for sport. Looks like she stepped off a Milan runway—all sharp cheekbones and predatory grace, dark hair swept into a perfect chignon. She moves like she owns every room she enters, which technically she does since Daddy owns half of northern Italy. Her specialty is psychological warfare disguised as sisterly concern. She’s the one who “accidentally” invited Matteo’s ex-girlfriend to our wedding anniversary dinner. The one who “forgot” to tell me about the dress code at family events, leaving me underdressed and humiliated. The one who spreads rumors about my “instability” to anyone who’ll listen. “Maybe she’s not trying hard enough,” Bianca rumbles from her chair, not even looking up from her wine. “In our family, wives always understood their duties.” My face burns. “I understand my duties perfectly.” “Do you?” Viviana’s smile could freeze hell. “Because from where I sit, you’ve been quite the disappointment. No children, no connections of value, no skills beyond looking pretty at parties.” “I graduated summa cum laude from—” “From a state school,” Bianca interrupts with a laugh. “How… quaint.” Matteo says nothing. Just cuts his veal like we’re discussing the weather instead of dissecting my worth as a human being. “Perhaps,” Viviana continues, “it’s time to reconsider this arrangement. The Costello girl from Naples is quite lovely, and her father owns—” “Enough.” Matteo’s voice cuts through the tension. “Serafina and I will handle our marriage privately.” My heart does this stupid little flutter of hope. Maybe he does care. Maybe— “Actually,” he continues, setting down his knife, “I’d like to have dinner with you tomorrow night. Just us. We need to talk.” I spend the entire next day in a pathetic state of hope. Maybe this is it. Maybe he’s finally going to fight for us. I get my hair done, buy a new dress—red silk that hugs every curve—and actually let myself believe that three years of marriage might mean something. The restaurant is perfect. Intimate. Candlelit. The kind of place where proposals happen and marriages get saved. “You look beautiful,” Matteo says when I arrive, and for a moment, I see the man I fell in love with. “Thank you.” I slide into the booth, heart hammering. “This is nice. It’s been so long since we—” “Serafina, there’s someone I want you to meet.” The words hit me like ice water. “What?” That’s when she appears. Tall, blonde, absolutely stunning in that effortless way that screams Russian aristocracy. She’s wearing a simple black dress that probably costs more than my car, and she moves like she owns the world. “This is Anastasia Ruffo,” Matteo says, standing to kiss her cheek. “Anastasia, my wife, Serafina.” Wife. He says it like it’s a job title he’s about to eliminate. “Pleasure,” Anastasia purrs in accented English, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “Matteo has told me so much about you.” I stare at her hand like it’s a snake. “Has he?” “Please, sit.” Matteo gestures to the chair across from me. “We have a lot to discuss.” “I thought this was dinner for two,” I manage. “It is,” he says. “For two people who matter.” The cruelty of it steals my breath. “Serafina,” Anastasia says, settling into her chair like she belongs there, “I want you to know I have nothing but respect for what you’ve done for the Verrelli family.” “What I’ve done?” “Your service,” she continues smoothly. “Three years of loyalty. It’s admirable.” Service. Like I’m the goddamn help. “But now,” Matteo says, reaching across the table to take Anastasia’s hand, “it’s time for the family to move forward. Anastasia brings connections we need. Political power. Financial backing.” “What are you saying?” But I know. God help me, I already know. “I’m saying our arrangement has served its purpose.” His voice is matter-of-fact, like he’s discussing a business merger. “The papers are already drawn up. You’ll be well compensated, of course.” “Compensated?” The word comes out strangled. “I’m getting married, Serafina. To someone who can actually help this family grow.” The restaurant spins around me. “But I’m your wife.” His gaze sharpens. “You still are. And now Anastasia will be too.” Chapter 2 Serafina I’m still sitting in this restaurant, staring at my husband and his… what the fuck do I even call her? His upgrade? His replacement? The blonde Russian who just told me our marriage was a “business transaction.” “You’re joking.” The words come out like a croak. “This is some kind of sick joke.” Matteo doesn’t even blink. “I need an heir, Serafina. Three years and nothing. Anastasia can give me what you can’t.” The casual cruelty of it hits me like a brick to the face. “What I can’t?” “Children.” He says it like he’s ordering coffee. “The family needs an heir. You’ve had your chance.” “I’ve had my chance?” My voice cracks. “We haven’t even tried in weeks. You barely touch me.” Anastasia leans forward, all fake sympathy and predatory smile. “Oh, sweetie. Maybe that’s because he’s been… busy.” The implication hits me like ice water. “How long?” “Six months,” Matteo says. “Maybe seven.” Seven months. Seven fucking months he’s been cheating on me while I’ve been playing the perfect wife, wondering why he won’t even look at me. “But here’s the thing,” Anastasia continues, swirling her wine like we’re discussing vacation plans. “I think this could work out beautifully for everyone.” “What could work out?” “Sister-wives!” She claps her hands together like she just solved world hunger. “I’ll be the main wife, obviously. The one who produces heirs. But you can stay! Like a… what do you call it… companion?” I stare at her. “Are you fucking insane?” “Think about it,” Matteo says, leaning back in his chair. “You keep your lifestyle. Your status. Your security. And I get what I need from someone who can actually deliver.” “This is insane.” I stand up, chair scraping against the floor. “I’m leaving.” “Sit down,” Matteo’s voice goes cold. “We’re not done.” “Yes, we are.” “Your father owes the family two million dollars.” I freeze. “What?” “Your father’s gambling debt. Did you think we forgot? The only reason we haven’t collected is because of you.” The restaurant spins around me. I sit back down before I fall down. “That’s right,” Anastasia purrs. “So you see, darling, you don’t really have a choice.” “This is blackmail.” “This is business,” Matteo corrects. “Same as it’s always been.” My phone buzzes. A text from Viviana: Come home immediately. We need to discuss your new arrangement. “They already know,” I whisper. “The whole family’s on board,” Matteo confirms. “Mother thinks it’s a brilliant solution. Bianca’s already planning the new sleeping arrangements.” “Sleeping arrangements?” “Well, he can’t exactly have two wives in the same bed,” Anastasia laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m sure the guest room is lovely.” The guest room. I’m being demoted to the fucking guest room in my own house. “I think it’ll be fun,” Anastasia continues. “Like having a sister! You can help with wedding planning. Maybe babysit when the little ones come.” Babysit. She wants me to babysit her children with my husband. “This is sick,” I manage. “This is practical,” Matteo says. “You get to stay Mrs. Verrelli. Just… not the only one.” My mind goes blank. Like someone just unplugged my brain and left me running on autopilot. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. “I need time to think.” “There’s nothing to think about,” Matteo says. “The papers are already drawn up. You can sign them tonight or tomorrow morning. Your choice.” “What papers?” “The amendment to our marriage contract. Acknowledging Anastasia as my second wife and primary heir-bearer.” Heir-bearer. Like I’m livestock that failed to produce. “And if I refuse?” “Your father’s debt comes due immediately.” His smile is arctic. “Plus interest. Plus penalties. I believe that puts it at around four million now.” Four million dollars. My dad doesn’t have four million cents. “Don’t look so sad, sister,” Anastasia reaches across the table to pat my hand. “This could be wonderful. You’ll have built-in help with all the boring wife duties. And I promise I’ll take good care of Matteo.” The way she says his name makes me want to throw up. “I can’t… I need air.” “Of course you do,” Matteo signals for the check. “But don’t take too long deciding. The family’s waiting.” I stumble toward the bathroom, legs shaking. In the mirror, I look like a ghost. Pale, hollow-eyed, broken. When I come back, they’re both smiling at me like I’m a puppy who just learned a new trick. “Ready to go home and make this official?” Anastasia asks sweetly. Home. To sign papers making me a sister-wife to a Russian socialite who’s been fucking my husband for seven months. “Yes,” I hear myself say. “I’m ready.” Chapter 3 Serafina Walking back into the Verrelli estate feels like entering my own funeral. Except I’m still breathing, which honestly makes it worse. “Anastasia, bella!” Viviana practically launches herself at the Russian princess, arms wide like she’s greeting her long-lost daughter. “Welcome to the family!” I’m standing right fucking there. Three years of marriage, and I got a handshake and a lecture about posture on my first day. “Thank you, Mrs. Verrelli,” Anastasia purrs, accepting the embrace like she deserves it. “Your home is magnificent.” “Our home,” Viviana corrects, shooting me a look that could cut glass. “Serafina, take Anastasia’s coat.” Take her coat. Like I’m the fucking help. “I’ll get it,” Matteo says, stepping in before I can tell his mother exactly where she can stick that coat. Small miracle. My husband defending me for approximately thirty seconds. “Nonsense,” Bianca appears from nowhere, all fake smiles and predatory energy. “Sera doesn’t mind. Do you, sister?” Sister. The word tastes like poison. “Of course not,” I lie, taking Anastasia’s designer coat. It probably costs more than most people’s rent. “Such a good sport,” Anastasia says, patting my cheek like I’m a pet. “I can already tell we’re going to be the best of friends.” Friends. Right. Because nothing says friendship like fucking your friend’s husband. Viviana links arms with Anastasia, leading her toward the sitting room. “Tell me everything about your family. The Ruffos are such a distinguished line.” Distinguished. When they found out about my family, Viviana spent six months making jokes about my father’s plumbing business. “Well,” Anastasia settles onto the good sofa—the one I’m not allowed to sit on because it’s “for special occasions”—“my great-grandfather was an advisor to the Don.” “Fascinating!” Viviana claps her hands together. “Bianca, get the good wine. The Barolo.” The good wine. For three years, I got the house white that tastes like disappointment. “I’ll help,” I start to say. “No need,” Bianca waves me off. “You just… stand there.” Stand there. Like furniture. Got it. Matteo’s phone buzzes. “I have to take this. Business call.” And there it is. My thirty seconds of protection, gone. The second he leaves the room, the temperature drops about twenty degrees. “So,” Viviana turns to me, smile sharpening, “I trust you understand your new position in this household?” “Crystal clear,” I mutter. “Good. Because things are going to change around here.” She gestures to Anastasia like she’s presenting a prize. “Anastasia will be taking the master suite, obviously.” Obviously. Because why would the actual wife get the master bedroom? “Where exactly am I supposed to sleep?” “The blue room should be perfectly adequate,” Viviana says. “It has a lovely view of the garden.” The blue room. Also known as the smallest bedroom in the house, the one we use for storage. “How cozy,” Anastasia adds, not even trying to hide her smirk. “Like a little servant’s quarters.” “I’m not a servant.” “Of course not,” Bianca returns with the wine, pouring generous glasses for everyone except me. “You’re family. Just… different family.” Different family. Lower family. Disposable family. “I hope you don’t mind,” Anastasia sips her wine, “but I’ve already ordered new linens for the master suite. Silk, from Italy. I prefer a softer touch.” She’s talking about my bed. My sheets. My room. “And I’ll need the walk-in closet cleared out,” she continues. “I have quite a bit more clothing than… well, than what’s currently in there.” My clothes. She wants my clothes gone. “This is insane,” I say. “What’s insane,” Viviana’s voice goes ice-cold, “is thinking you could hold onto something that was never really yours.” “I’m his wife.” “You’re his first wife,” Anastasia corrects. “Past tense. I’m his future.” Before I can respond, she stands and walks over to me, close enough that I can smell her expensive perfume. “And speaking of the future,” she leans in, voice dropping to a whisper, “I’ll be joining Matteo in bed tonight. Just thought you should know.” The words hit like a physical blow. “What?” “Well, we can’t exactly waste time, can we? The family needs an heir, and I intend to deliver.” Her smile is pure venom. “Don’t worry, I’ll try to keep the noise down. Wouldn’t want to disturb your sleep in your little blue room.” My hands are shaking. Actually shaking with rage. “You’re sick.” “I’m practical,” she says, returning to her seat. “Something you never learned.” Viviana nods approvingly. “Finally, a woman who understands her duties.” Duties. Like being a broodmare is some kind of honor. “I think,” Anastasia says, settling back into my spot on the sofa, “this arrangement is going to work out beautifully. For everyone who matters.” Everyone who matters. Message received. I’m not even a person anymore. I’m just an obstacle they’re tolerating until they figure out how to get rid of me completely. Chapter 4 Serafina “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, voice barely controlled, “I need to move my things.” “Of course,” Viviana waves me away. “Run along. We have important things to discuss.” I walk toward the door, feeling their eyes on my back like knives. “Oh, Serafina?” Anastasia calls sweetly. I stop, don’t turn around. “Welcome to the new family dynamic. I think you’re going to love it here.” Anastasia’s words hit me like a punch to the gut. Literally. My stomach lurches, bile rising in my throat like my body’s rejecting the reality of what she just said. “Excuse me,” I manage, stumbling toward the hallway. “Oh dear,” Viviana’s voice follows me, dripping with fake concern. “I hope you’re not coming down with something.” Yeah. I’m coming down with the realization that my life is a fucking nightmare. I barely make it to the guest bathroom before everything comes up. Three years of swallowed pride, bitter disappointment, and now this—the image of Anastasia in my bed, with my husband, making the heir I apparently can’t. My knees hit the cold marble as my body rebels against everything. The wine, the humiliation, the casual cruelty of it all. I’m retching like my soul’s trying to escape through my throat. “Serafina?” Matteo’s voice outside the door. “Are you alright?” Alright? I’m throwing up while your fiancée announces she’s going to fuck you tonight in my bed. I’m fucking peachy. “Food poisoning,” I croak. “Do you need—” “Just go away.” Silence. Then footsteps retreating. Perfect. Even when I’m literally sick, he can’t be bothered to actually care. I splash cold water on my face, avoiding my reflection. I look like death, and honestly? That’s appropriate. When I finally emerge, the house has gone quiet. Too quiet. I pad down the hallway toward the stairs, and that’s when I hear it. Laughter. Coming from upstairs. From the master bedroom. My bedroom. Anastasia’s voice, low and sultry: “You’re terrible, Matteo.” His response is muffled, but I hear enough. The intimate tone. The way he’s talking to her—soft, playful. The way he used to talk to me, back when I was stupid enough to think this marriage might become real. I should go to my new room. The blue room. The servant’s quarters. I should pretend I don’t hear them, pretend it doesn’t matter. Instead, I stand there like a masochist, listening to my replacement seduce my husband twenty feet above my head. “Are you sure about this?” His voice carries down the stairs. “About what? Making you happy? Giving you what you need?” What you need. Like I’m some broken appliance that couldn’t perform its function. The bedroom door closes with a soft click, and I know exactly what’s happening up there. What’s going to happen. What should have been happening with me for the last two years if my husband had actually wanted me. I turn to go, and that’s when it hits me. When was my last period? The thought stops me cold on the stairs. When was it? I’ve been so stressed, so focused on the family drama, so crushed by Matteo’s indifference that I haven’t been tracking… Oh, fuck. I’m in the blue room—my new prison cell—rummaging through boxes of my hastily moved belongings. Somewhere in here is the emergency stash I keep because you never know when you might need… There. A pregnancy test from the pharmacy, bought months ago during a scare that turned out to be nothing. My hands shake as I read the instructions. As if I don’t know how this works. As if I haven’t hoped and feared and wondered about this moment for three years. In the tiny en-suite bathroom—God, this room is pathetic—I take the test and set it on the counter. Three minutes. The longest three minutes of my life. From upstairs, I hear movement. Voices. The sound of my marriage being officially ended by someone else’s moans. I stare at the test, willing it to stay negative. Because a baby now? A baby when I’m about to become the family’s live-in charity case? When my husband is upstairs with his new wife? The timer on my phone goes off. Two lines. Two goddamn lines. I’m pregnant. 🫢 Read My Husband Asked For A Second Wife Now! ❤️🔥💍
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