Page 60 of The Mafia's Fake Wife

His expression cracks. The fake confidence, the pity act—it all crumbles. “He’s manipulating you,” he says, his voice dropping. “You can’t possibly want to be with someone like him.”

I laugh, the sound sharp and cold even to my own ears. “Someone like him? As opposed to someone like you?”

“I made mistakes?—”

“Mistakes?” I cut him off. “Let me refresh your memory. On January 15th, you transferred $12,500 from our joint account to your personal account. January 28th, another $15,000.February 3rd, $122,000 which must have been when you got brave and figured I hadn’t noticed. You were gearing up to leave then, but I guess you couldn’t go without taking the very last of it. February 17th, the remaining $18,750—exactly the amount of my tuition payment.”

His eyes widen. He clearly hadn’t realized I knew the specifics.

“That’s $168,250 total. My entire inheritance from my mother, minus what I’ve already paid for my education over the years. Money that was meant to fund my medical education and help me get started. Money you knew was sacred to me.”

“I was going to pay you back.”

“With what? The money you lost gambling? Or the money you were getting from your cocktail waitress, maybe? Were Tiffany’s tips that good?”

He pales as he realizes how much I know. “Elena, you don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly. You targeted me for my money. You pretended to love me while systematically draining my accounts. Then you disappeared without a word, leaving me with nothing.”

He tries to reach for my wrist. “If you’d just listen…”

I step back before he can touch me. My security team moves forward, but they don’t need to intervene. I’m handling this. “Don’t touch me,” I say, my voice steady. “Don’t speak to me. Don’t come near me again.”

A hospital security guard approaches. I recognize him as the one who always nods respectfully when I arrive with Damir. “Everything okay, Mrs. Antonova?” He’s about the only one at the hospital who calls me that. To everyone else here, I’m stillDr. Clarke, so I suspect the guard knows Damir, or something of him, outside the hospital.

The title still sounds strange sometimes, but right now, I embrace it. “Yes, thank you. This man was just leaving.”

Casey looks from me to the security guard, then to my waiting security team. The realization dawns that he’s completely outmaneuvered. “This isn’t over,” he mutters, but the threat lacks conviction.

I watch him walk away, looking diminished. I feel nothing but residual anger. Casey has become irrelevant to my life.

“Mrs. Antonova?” Valeriya approaches. “The car is ready whenever you are.”

I nod, turning away from Casey’s retreating figure. “Thank you, Valeriya.”

As we walk to the SUV, I wonder what Damir is doing to destroy Casey, and why it’s taking so long. The thought surprises me, not because it’s cruel, but because I realize I trust Damir to handle it. Before Casey’s betrayal and meeting Damir, I would have been horrified at the idea of someone being “destroyed” on my behalf. Now, I understand the necessity of consequences.

The car door opens, and I slide into the backseat, mind already shifting to dinner with Damir. Four months. It feels both longer and shorter than that, as if we’ve been together forever and yet just started discovering each other.

I touch the emerald at my throat, thinking about him and the way he makes me feel. I wonder what he has planned for tonight. With Damir, even a simple dinner becomes an event,not because he’s showy, but because he pays attention to details most people miss.

My phone buzzes with a text from him:“Looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

I smile, typing back:“Just finished my shift. Heading home now to change.”

Home. When did his penthouse become home to me? When did Damir become more than just a business arrangement?

These are questions I’m still not ready to answer. For now, I’m content to live in this moment and be Elena Antonova for as long as it lasts, without counting down the days until it ends.

The car pulls away from the hospital, leaving Casey and all he represents firmly in the past. Ahead lies dinner with Damir, and a future I never expected but am increasingly unwilling to give up. I reach into my bag to return my phone and pause at a noticeable absence. I search through the contents—stethoscope, notebook, granola bar wrapper, lip balm, spare clothes, and sneakers, but no purse.

“Wait.” I tap on the partition separating me from Fydor, who’s driving. “I think I left my purse in my locker.” I must have gotten distracted by the praise from Dr. Patel, combined with my tiredness.

Valeriya turns in the passenger seat, her expression neutral as always. “We need to go back?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I forgot it.” I blush, embarrassed. “My wallet is in there.”

Fydor makes a smooth U-turn at the next intersection without complaint. In the four months I’ve known him, he’s never onceshown annoyance at my requests, though backtracking like this disrupts their carefully planned security routes.

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